


The World Begins and Ends with You

by thursdayschild



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artistic murder, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Fix-It, Food is People, Italy, M/M, Murder, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Season 3, Season 3 rewrite, Sort Of, Will Graham’s dogs, everyone is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-07-23 21:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 68,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20014723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdayschild/pseuds/thursdayschild
Summary: “When the moment comes, can you do what needs to be done?”Two men had asked Will that question and he had given them both the same answer. Yet here he stands, on the doorstep of the one with the blood of the other staining his clothes and skin. Maybe it had been instinct, maybe insanity. Or maybe this is the person he’s been all along and he had just been too afraid to embrace his reality, his becoming.





	1. Chapter 1

_“It is only in love and murder that we still remain sincere.”_

_— Friedrich Durrenmatt_

❈❈❈

For the first time in a long time, it’s quiet inside Will Graham’s head. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his body and the frantic rhythm of his heart, he feels very calm and focused. The blood sprayed across his face is not yet tacky, the house around him is silent, and Will is at peace.

Then his phone rings.

He reaches for his pocket automatically, nearly dropping the phone as he pulls it out. He notices that his fingers, sticky with blood, are shaking.

“Hello?” he says calmly, not glancing at the screen.

“It’s Alana. Is Jack with you?”

Will glances at the body sprawled on the floor, an expression of shock and betrayal still seeming to cling to its slack face.

“No, why?”

“They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest, Will. For acting as an accessory to entrapment.” She pauses, taking an unsteady breath. “And for the murder of Randall Tier. They’re going to arrest Jack as well.”

Will blinks. This is not one of the problems he’d anticipating having tonight. Of course, Jack’s plan had been borderline insane, but it takes one to catch one, right? It had also been borderline criminal, which is probably more the issue in the current situation. He turns it over in his head, a single thought, easy to handle in the new-found quiet of his mind. A warrant for his arrest. Again. But he’s not going back to prison or to the BSHCI.

“Will?” Alana asks, bringing him back to the moment.

There’s only one thing that he can say to her now.

“Goodbye, Alana.”

He hangs up.

❈❈❈

Will gets out of his car and looks up at the house in front of him, large and imposing. He walks to the door and pauses, recalling words spoken to him mere hours before. It feels like another lifetime. He’d been a different person then. Or at least a better liar.

_ “When the moment comes, can you do what needs to be done?” _

Two men had asked Will that question and he had given them both the same answer. Yet here he stands, on the doorstep of the one with the blood of the other staining his clothes and skin. Even now, he isn’t sure how long he’d known which “yes” was a lie. Perhaps both. He doesn’t think that either man could have fully anticipated his actions this evening. He hadn’t planned it; it had just happened. But not the way that things had “just happened” when he’d been sick. One moment he’d been sitting with his head practically between his knees, trying not to think about who he was going to betray and how neither man was fully convinced of his loyalty. The next, he’d been on his feet, everything certain and obvious in his mind, the path laid out before him. He had never known such clarity before. Maybe it had been instinct, maybe insanity. Or maybe this is the person he’s been all along and he had just been too afraid to embrace his reality, his becoming.

Whatever brought it on, that clarity is gone now. His mind is still fairly quiet, but the shock is setting in. He feels like he’s falling and his body is shaking out of control. Rain and blood mingle on his face and soak through his clothes and he has to brace himself against the front door as he reaches for the bell. Before he can find it, the door gives and he staggers, realizing it’s ajar. True psychological shock is starting to take hold, little thoughts and questions becoming louder and moving faster and yet at the same time everything feels far away and unmoored. Is the door unlocked for him or for Jack or because Hannibal is already gone and felt no need to guard a place to which he will never return? Will tries to take a deep breath, but the air catches in his throat and he feels like he’s choking.

He pushes the door open and steps inside. It’s dark, but he knows where to go, where Hannibal will be if he hasn’t left the country already. ( _ He should have left; I told him to leave; he should have left. _ ) He moves through the dining room, quietly as he can, and then pauses, only a small sliver of the kitchen visible. He doesn’t know what he’ll find if he rounds the corner. Hannibal could be waiting for him, waiting to kill him, maybe. There might be unspeakable horrors just out of sight. Will knows better than anyone exactly what Hannibal is capable of. He might be faced with elegant dishes made of he did not what to know what — or rather — who. Or there might be nothing, just a space where Hannibal Lecter no longer is.

Will doesn’t like the fact that he has no trouble identifying which of these he’s most afraid of finding and it’s not death or blood.

He turns the corner.

Hannibal looks up from the meat he’s slicing. He is perfectly groomed in his spotless apron and pale, striped shirt. Will thinks he can see his own reflection, pale and bloody, in the knife Hannibal’s holding. Hannibal raises his gaze from his work slowly and if Will didn’t know his mind so intimately he would have missed the little flash of surprise in his eyes as he sees Will. Hannibal looks at him steadily and Will stares back at him, the growing shock numbing him to caring about everything from eye contact to the mix of rainwater and blood he’s dripping onto the floor. Hannibal sets down his knife, moving slowly as if afraid he might startle Will into flight. Will isn’t sure if Hannibal is going to try to kill him or not.

“I was expecting Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says evenly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he looks Will up and down. “But I suspect he won’t be joining us tonight.” 

“No.”

Hannibal turns as he starts to untie his apron, but Will sees a thin, inhuman smile crack the veneer of his face. He folds the apron and sets it aside before returning his attention to Will.

“Upstairs. Third door on your right. Don’t take long.”

And with that, Hannibal is in swift, elegant motion, as if executing perfectly memorized choreography, gliding past Will towards the front hall. Will stands motionless for a moment before his brain latches onto something blissfully easy: follow Hannibal’s instructions.

He goes upstairs and finds a bathroom behind door number three. He strips off his bloody clothes and gets into the shower. The water feels good on his muscles, which he finds have gone rigid beyond belief with tension.

He knows he’s fully in shock now; the physical world is a million miles away, but his body still remembers the motions of bathing. His mind is trying to grasp onto what had happened, what he’d done. He can see it all; the memories are perfectly clear, but he can’t make himself accept why he’d done it. He’s known for a long time that killers live in his mind, known even that one of those killers is himself, but to do what he’d done for that slyly smiling horror. That might be too much, but it’s all too far away for him to be sure of anything.

Everything stands at a distance and Will realizes that he should feel sick watching the blood of a man who might have been his friend wash away down the drain. He should feel sick for coming to Hannibal, for following his orders, for doing everything Jack only wanted him to  _ pretend _ to. He should, at the very least, be sick with fear at being naked in the house of serial killer who might still prefer to have him dead rather than alive. He should certainly be disturbed that when he steps out of the shower find his own clothes — clothes he knows were at his house in Wolf Trap — waiting for him. 

He’s not.

Maybe he’s too numb. Maybe it’s the shock. Or maybe it’s that Jack was the one he was pretending to all along.

He gets dressed and goes back downstairs. Hannibal is waiting for him by the door, wearing his overcoat and holding another over his arm. There are two small duffle bags slung over his shoulder and he holds three manila envelopes in his hand. He stares at Will and Will stares back, still shaking a little, but, somehow, calm and unafraid. 

“I have to ask you one thing,” Hannibal says, one hand on the doorknob.

“What?”

“Why did you lie to me about killing Freddie Lounds?”

Will blinks, but isn’t really surprised that Hannibal had figured out the trick.

“Jack thought it would bring us closer together,” Will replies, a wry twist in his voice. “A bonding activity.”

Hannibal nods and spends another moment drinking in Will’s image. Then he nods once more and there’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. His gaze is expectant; it’s the same look Will remembers seeing when Hannibal would usher him into that obscenely luxurious office for their “conversations.”

“Are you coming?” Hannibal asks before he turns away without waiting to see if Will follows. He doesn’t have to look to know what choice he’ll make. 

A black car is waiting by the curb, windows tinted and dark in the rain. It’s not Hannibal’s Bentley, but a much more nondescript sedan that Will hadn’t even noticed when he’d arrived. He glances back at his own car, haphazardly parked with the lights still running. Well, he supposes that anyone looking for him will end up here soon enough regardless. Hannibal steps carefully over the gutter, gets into the driver’s seat, and tosses the bags and coats into the back. Will opens the door to the passenger side, gets into the car, and accepts the envelopes Hannibal hands him.

“He’s coming with us then?”

The voice from the backseat nearly gives Will a heart attack. He whips around so fast that he feels something in his neck catch and strain. 

Abigail Hobbs is sitting in the backseat with her own small duffel. She looks perfectly calm and perfectly… alive.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies as he starts the car and pulls out into the empty street.

“He doesn't look too good,” she says.

“He killed Jack Crawford.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied. 

Will wonders if he’s hallucinating again. 

Will wonders if he’s being kidnapped.

❈❈❈

They drive in silence, presumably towards BWI. Will stares out the window. He has finally found something that he’s bothered by. He is bothered by the fact that the Hannibal hid Abigail from him.

“One of those is for you,” Hannibal says, pulling Will from his revery and nodding at the envelopes on his lap.

Will turns his attention to them for the first time and sees that each bears one of their names in Hannibal’s elegant script. He hands Abigail's back to her and then opens his own, Hannibal’s balanced on his lap. He tips out a pile of documents and cards. He spots a US passport and flips it open. It’s hard to see in the slow strobe of the streetlights, but he makes out his picture — his actual passport picture, which he doesn’t want to know how Hannibal got — and, he supposes, his new self. It seems unlikely that Hannibal would go to all this trouble just to kill him straight away. How long he’ll live as this new man is uncertain, but for now, this is who he is, who Hannibal has made him.

“Keep your passport on you,” Hannibal instructs them, eyes still on the road. “You also have a resume, work and education history, credit cards, and other pertinent documents. Do try not to lose them.”

“Francis Fell?” Will asks, reading from the passport.

“For the patron saint of animals."

Cognizance suddenly flares in Will’s numb brain. 

“My dogs,” he breathes, twisting in his seat as if he might see them piled around Abigail.

“Taken care of,” Hannibal replies.

Will swallows.

“What does that mean?” he asks slowly. He’s never known Hannibal to hurt animals and it’s outside the profile he’d built for the Ripper. But Hannibal himself is so much more than the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Don’t worry,” Abigail says from behind him. “They’re fine.”

Will nods tightly, but he still feels the loss like a blow to the chest. He turns his attention back to the file in his hands. He finds a bullet-point biography of Francis Fell and skims over it. Same birthday as Will, but a different birthplace. Undergrad in journalism, but then the police academy in Baltimore. He had briefly been a homicide detective, but had quit the force after his marriage to—.

Will glares over at Hannibal. 

“Let me guess,” he says. “You’re Roman Fell now?”

Hannibal only smiles a little more, teeth flashing like fangs in the lights of the passing cars.

❈❈❈

Will falls asleep before he can get much enjoyment out of the first-class seats that Hannibal had arranged for them. His head has filled back up with questions, fears, and confusion; the peacefulness he’d felt earlier entirely evaporated, but he’s too exhausted to lend any coherent through to it. He’s still in the post-adrenaline crash and it’s easier to give in to the call of sleep than deal with his own psyche or with Hannibal’s cryptic bullshit. If he is going to answer any of Will’s questions, he’s certainly not going to do it on an airplane.

He’s been dozing for a while, jolting himself awake periodically, sweaty and frightened, not sure what had been stalking him in his dreams. He doesn’t think it was the stag, but he doesn’t know what else it might have been. 

After doing this a half-dozen times, Hannibal decides enough is enough and hands Will two small pills and a cup of water. Will takes them without question. This is certainly not how he'll do it, if Hannibal decides to kill him.

When Hannibal decides to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

Abigail shakes Will awake as the plane descends. It takes him a minute to remember where he is and why.

He follows Hannibal and Abigail through the airport and customs. When they get to the desk, Hannibal hands over their passports (when had he given Hannibal his passport?) and speaks pleasantly with the man behind the counter in light, lilting tones. Will tries to look like he isn’t still half-sedated. Abigail holds his hand. After a minute, the customs agent hands their passports back, stamped and official, and waves them through with an accented “Welcome to Italy.”

Well, at least he knows what country he’s in. He supposes he must have seen their destination at the gate or on his ticket, but it had slid from his mind like so much else.

They move through the airport like a dream and Hannibal gets them situated in a cab and gives the driver an address. Will and Abigail fall asleep in the backseat.   


❈❈❈

  


Hannibal carries their bags upstairs and they follow after him like the dogs used to do when Will would get home. Hannibal unlocks a door and leads them into a truly opulent flat.

“We live here?” Abigail breathes.

“For now,” Hannibal says, a slight note of pleasure at Abigail’s wonderment in his tone. He strides off like he knows the flat well already and Will can hear him tossing their bags into rooms.

“How much did he tell you?” he asks Abigail quietly.

“Just that he had a plan no matter what and that it would be alright.” 

Will nods. That sounds about right for Hannibal. He goes over to a window and looks out at Florence.

“How long have you been living with him?” he asks, squinting into the sunlight.

“A while. Since you thought I was dead.”

“He cut off your ear?” The view is stunning.

“We faked my murder together.”

“Why?”

Abigail doesn’t answer him and Will watches the people moving about in the street below. After a minute, Abigail comes and stands beside him. He puts his arm around her shoulders and she leans her head against him. She’s warm at his side and Will lets himself wonder if it might be alright after all. 

Hannibal comes back into the room and they both turn to look at him. He’s dressed in one of his ridiculous yet somehow stunning suits and smiles to see them both together.

“Well,” he says. “It’s good to see you taking to your parts so readily.”

They haven’t discussed their new identities yet and Will tenses a little. 

“Francis and Andrea Fell,” Hannibal says, smiling at them with a smile that is not his own. “My beautiful family.”

He crosses over to them and holds something out to Will between his thumb and forefinger. It gleams in the light and Will reaches for it automatically, but Hannibal catches his hand and slips the ring onto his finger himself.

“My loving husband and our charming daughter.”

Will can’t decide if he wants to laugh or throw up.

❈❈❈

Will and Abigail spend the rest of the day trying to fend off jet lag while Hannibal comes and goes, doing God only knows what. Will doesn’t care. Abigail is alive and dosing in the next room. That’s what matters now. Abigail. Alive. That’s what’s important. How they got here doesn’t matter. He can’t let it matter. One life for another seems a fair enough trade.

Will’s first days as a fugitive pass in a haze of exhaustion and activity that washes around him like a river. Hannibal tells them about his position at the Capponi Library and cooks them decedent meals. Abigail takes long walks, leaving the flat tense and poised for flight and returning relaxed and open. Will suspects she hasn’t been getting out much lately. Things arrive in crates and boxes and the flat becomes, if not exactly homey, at least familiar. While none of the objects are ones that Will recognizes from Hannibal’s life in Baltimore, the man’s style and tastes haven’t changed. Will hopes that it doesn’t get them caught. It seems a foolish thing to die for. But then again, what isn’t?

Will’s curled in a window seat, doing dogged battle with a copy of Dante and an Italian-English dictionary, when Hannibal taps on the doorframe of the room. Will looks up. They haven’t really been talking much. Hannibal has seemed content to give his two… companions? captives? time to settle in, but Will can see now from the way Hannibal’s muscles move that his patience is growing thin.

“Will,” he says. He waits until Will sets the books aside before moving farther into the room. “You can’t keep behaving like this.”

“Like what?” he asks and even in his own ears it sounds petulant. 

Hannibal gives him a look. Will holds it as long as he can, but breaks quickly. 

“I don’t even know what we’re doing here.” It comes out far more plaintive than he’d intended.

“We’re giving Abigail the life she deserves. Among other things.”

Will isn’t sure he likes how Hannibal says that. There’s hunger in his eyes and Will suddenly feels very, very exposed, pinned like a butterfly under that stare.

“Do you want to talk about what you did?”

“No,” says Will. And then, almost daringly, “You’re not my psychiatrist.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees calmly. 

“So what are you?” Will ventures. He still isn’t sure if he’s a prisoner or not. He thinks he came here willingly, but he isn’t certain. He’s never certain when it comes to Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles at him and it isn’t Hannibal anymore. It’s Roman Fell, academic and socialite, a leader in his field and someone anyone would be happy to talk to.

“I’m your husband,” he replies. “And we need to talk about our daughter.”

❈❈❈

Abigail agrees to enroll in classes at John Cabot University in Rome, which is good since Hannibal already got her accepted. He arranges her housing and travel and she promises to come home on weekends. Will blinks when she says this, not quite understanding. Despite the fact that he’s barely left the flat since they arrived, it hasn’t even occurred to him to think of it as home. It feels more like a museum than anything else to Will, like he shouldn’t touch the things on the shelves or even sit on the furniture. But he supposes Abigail must have gotten used to Hannibal’s sense of style, living with him for all that time. 

Hannibal comes back from taking her to the train station with several shopping bags. Will narrows his eyes, not trusting whatever Hannibal is obviously planning, but not caring enough to comment. He watches Hannibal go into the kitchen and listens as he unpacks the bags. When he returns, Will quickly drops his gaze to his books and tries to feign disinterest in Hannibal. 

“You’re only going to strain yourself with that,” Hannibal says, nodding at the Dante and dictionary combination that has become Will’s main interest over the past week.

“I’ve got to do something,” he replies coolly.

“We’re in Florence, Will. There’s plenty to do.” Will looks up at Hannibal in time to see a small smile on his face. “You are not a prisoner here.”

Will gives him a skeptical look.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you.”

Hannibal snorts quietly.

“Come,” he says, holding out a hand to Will.

Will takes it and stands. There’s no resisting Hannibal. Not anymore.

Hannibal leads Will into the kitchen.

Fresh produce — some of which Will cannot even begin to identify — lies on the counters along with spices, oils, and various cooking accoutrements. And a package wrapped in butcher’s paper and twine.

“What is that?” Will says, a slight edge to his voice.

“Pork,” Hannibal replies smoothly.

Will gives him a look, but Hannibal just smiles and shakes his head.

“So judgmental,” he says and Will could have sworn he sounded almost fond. “I’m making _involtini_ , among other things.” He gives Will an appraising look. “Would you like to help?”

He says it lightly, but Will knows there’s a deeper meaning to the question, even if it really is just pork. He’s only cooked once with Hannibal before, the night he’d faked Freddie’s murder, back when they were still doing that elaborate, three-partner dance, he, Hannibal, and Jack. But that had all been part of the trap, something Jack had wanted him to do to bring him closer to Hannibal. It hadn’t been real. Though, when it comes to Hannibal, very little ever seems to be.

Hannibal is watching him with that piercing, hungry gaze and when Will licks his lips he can somehow feel Hannibal’s eyes follow the moment. Will realizes that he’s stopped breathing. It’s probably just pork. He’s pretty sure it’s just pork. But Will knows that isn’t what he’s agreeing to in the moment. Hannibal asked if Will would like to help him. It’s half a contract Will doesn’t know if he wants to sign. But then again, he isn’t sure that he doesn’t want to either.

“Alright,” he says, stepping forward. He’d meant to say it casually, but his voice had come out small and cracked.

Hannibal smiles.

Will, it turns out, makes a passable sous-chef. His knife work is not even comparable to Hannibal’s, but he can wash vegetables like a champion. He’s a quick learner and Hannibal knows this, which Will suspects is why he’s being so patient at the moment. He seems to enjoy watching Will do what he’s told and Will is good at taking directions when it suits him. They don’t talk much as they work, but Hannibal turns on the radio to a classical station that he favors and Will finds it surprisingly easy to move as a part of Hannibal’s culinary dance.

Will is sent to set the table and pour a very specific bottle of wine. Hannibal serves, as always, and, as always, it is delicious. Will tries not to dwell on the fact that Hannibal is very clearly watching him eat. It’s the first meal they’ve shared alone together since… Since another lifetime, it seems to Will. Eventually, Will cracks.

“Is it really pork, Hannibal?”

Hannibal sets down his cutlery, delicately wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin, and gazes at Will steadily for a moment. Will feels like his skin might try to make an escape without the rest of him.

“William, you know I no longer have any reason to hide that from you. The next time you eat human flesh, you will be perfectly aware of the fact.” Hannibal gives him a slight smile and returns to his meal.

Will isn’t sure if he feels more or less inclined to finish eating after that.

_Next time._


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Will wakes to the smells of breakfast. This isn’t unusual, but Hannibal’s outfit is. He seems dressed for travel and gives Will’s sweat-stained T-shirt and boxers a critical look.

“Going somewhere?” Will asks, making a beeline for the carafe of coffee already sitting on the counter. 

“We are, yes. Eat your breakfast.” He nods at the perfectly plated omelet. Hannibal, apparently, has already eaten. 

Will sits with his coffee and as soon as Hannibal is satisfied that he’s going to eat, he moves away into the rest of the flat.

“I’m taking you to see something today,” he calls.

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’ll like it.”

Hannibal often does this, makes direct statements about how other people will think and act.

“I wanted us to go as a family,” he continues, “but it needs my attention and I see no point in keeping you from it any longer.”

And with that cryptic statement, he says no more.

❈❈❈

Hannibal drives them out of Florence proper and into the rolling Italian countryside. Will watches the view go past and listens the music Hannibal has chosen on the radio. They don’t speak, but it’s a gentle not speaking, simply a time in which words are not necessary. 

About an hour outside the city, Hannibal turns up a long, winding driveway and then stops the car in front of picture-perfect Italian farmhouse. Orange terracotta tiles cover the roof and the walls are a warm tan against the muted greens of the hills beyond. There’s an honest-to-god olive grove and fields rolling down behind the house. Will thinks it looks like something out of a movie, but a much nicer movie than the one most of his life seems to have been lifted from.

They step out of the car and Will stands blinking up at the building in the late morning sunlight. Hannibal watches him take in the farmhouse and the view around it for a moment before turning and striding towards the door. Will moves to follow, but Hannibal waves a hand at him.

“It will be better if you stay there.”

Will frowns, but stays by the car. He can hear some kind of commotion coming from inside, growing louder as Hannibal unlocks the door. He knows that sound, but his brain can’t understand it here in the Italian countryside. Hannibal pulls the door open and a pack of creatures explodes out of the house, running and barking and throwing themselves at Will.

Will’s flat on his back with Winston licking his face and furry bodies all over him before the shock alleviates enough for him to process what’s happening. 

His dogs.

His dogs are here in Italy.

His dogs are here in Italy with him.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position so he can rub heads and scratch behind ears, burying his face in soft, warm fur. Eventually, he looks up and sees Hannibal watching him, smiling what might be the most real smile Will’s ever seen on the man’s face.

“My dogs,” he says, incredulous.

“I told you they were taken care of.”

“Did you—?” Will frowns, thinking. Hannibal’s always very careful with his words and if he’d used the past tense the night they’d left then he’d meant it. “Hannibal, did you steal my dogs?

“Not personally.”

Will lets out a snort of laughter; he can’t help it. Despite Hannibal’s protest, he immediately pictures the man trying to smuggle dogs out of the Wolf Trap house under his suit jacket.

“You were either going to be here with me or you were going to be dead,” Hannibal says, as if this is perfectly reasonable. “Either way, this was clearly best for them.”

“You were gonna kill me and kidnap my dogs?”

“Not in that order, but possibly, yes.”

“Why?” Hannibal has never shown any interest in his dogs — with the exception of the night Mason Verger had been in his home — and Will can’t see the logic in bringing them here, especially given how likely his own death had been. It must have been a huge inconvenience and expense and for what?

Hannibal doesn’t seem at all thrown by the question, taking it with the same grace he does everything, addressing Will as if over dinner and not a pile of wildly excited canines. 

“It would have disrespected your memory to allow anything to happen to them.”

“So you had them shipped to Italy?”

“So I had them shipped to Italy.” Hannibal smiles and ruffles the fur of the nearest pup. “And, in the event that you came with us, I knew it would make you happy.”

Will can’t meet Hannibal’s gaze in that moment, instead focusing on his pack, making sure that they’re all healthy and happy. It seems they’ve been well cared for since he last saw them. Hannibal’s right; it does make him happy, truly happy in a way he hasn’t been in longer than he can remember, and he spends a minute trying not to think about anything else.

Eventually, however, he has to look up at Hannibal. He’s still just standing there, in his three-piece suit and unsettlingly benevolent smile, watching Will sitting on the warm, Italian earth, trying to hold all his dogs at once.

“Abigail said you had a plan no matter what,” he says at last.

“Yes.”

“What were you ready for?”

“Any eventuality.”

Will looks away, but Hannibal still sees him roll his eyes.

“I was not expecting you to kill Jack Crawford,” he admits.

“No, you were expecting  _ you _ to kill Jack Crawford,” Will says, a little annoyed somehow. “And me.”

“I wasn’t sure where your loyalties would fall in the end.”

Will lets out a bitter breath of laughter.

“Neither was I,” he confesses.

Even now, he wouldn’t say that he’s “loyal” to Hannibal. Yes, he had chosen him over Jack, but not because of loyalty.

Will had chosen Hannibal because he’d known that if Jack had gone to the Hannibal’s house that night, Will would have lost him, one way or another. Either Jack would have shot him (unlikely) or Hannibal would have killed Jack (likely) and not even he could have avoided taking the fall for that murder. And if, by some miracle, Jack had managed to take Hannibal alive, Will still would have lost him, most likely to the bowels of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. And while Hannibal had been allowed to visit Will, he very much doubted that he would have been permitted to return the favor. Killing Jack had simply been the only way for the next dawn to find him still at Hannibal’s side. If anything, it had been selfishness rather than loyalty.

Will isn’t ready to examine his motives any deeper than that so he starts checking Winston for ticks unnecessarily to avoid looking at Hannibal. Hannibal gives him a minute before seeming to run out of patience.

“The farm is ours,” he says.

“What?” Will asks, glancing at Hannibal’s shoulder rather than his face.

“This farm. It belongs to us. Well, it belongs to Roman and Francis Fell.”

“Why?”

“I knew the city wouldn’t suit you.”

Will chews his lip. Hannibal is right, of course. He’s always right. Florence is beautiful beyond belief, but he’d missed the open spaces and comfortable loneliness of Wolf Trap. 

“I will have to go back and forth to Florence for work, but you may stay here.”

“I may?” Will asks, bitterness edging his voice, testing to see how seriously Hannibal meant it.

Hannibal doesn’t blink.

“Yes. You may.”

“Are there other people here? Workers?”

“Not at the moment. I had people come to prepare the house and look after the dogs, but they’re gone now.”

Will nods.

The pack is starting to disperse, wandering off to sniff the ground or chase insects and each other. Hannibal steps closer to where Will still sits on the ground. He tugs up the thighs of his trousers a little so he can squat down in front of Will in one, elegant motion. Will can’t not look at him now and the moment he meets Hannibal’s eyes he feels trapped in them.

“You can ask me,” Hannibal says simply. “I have no need to lie to you anymore.”

Will feels sick. The things this man did to him were unspeakable. Frankly, it’s a miracle he’s even still alive between the encephalitis and the sleepwalking, the killer pigs both metaphorical and literal. And yet…. 

Will tries to pull himself out of those eyes, tries to surface back into the world of logic and law and morality printed plainly in black and white. But it’s been too long since he’s walked in that world and he no longer remembers the way. Now he’s in a different world, a world of murky grays and bloody scarlets, a world where impossible creatures stalk his mind and the line between man and monster is so blurred it doesn’t matter, doesn’t even exist.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.

The ghost of a smile touches one corner of Hannibal’s mouth.

“No, dear Will. Not unless I have to.”

_ Not unless I make you, you mean _ , Will thinks.

“Who are you going to kill?” he says instead.

The smile curls its way across Hannibal’s thin lips. 

“Let me worry about the cooking.”

For a moment, Will thinks he’s going to throw up, but then Hannibal is standing, breaking the moment and setting Will free — for now.

Hannibal turns and strides purposefully towards the house. 

“This will be your sanctuary, if you want it,” he says, not looking back at Will and leaving him to scramble quickly to his feet in order to follow. “No one will come here without your permission. The land is yours to do with as you see fit. I can get you a car, if you like, so you may come and go as you please.” Hannibal pauses with one hand on the doorknob and finally turns to look at Will. “Can I assume I don’t need to worry about you?”

Will swallows, but nods. Betraying Hannibal would mean betraying himself; Jack Crawford’s death sealed that bargain. And there’s Abigail to think of now as well.

“Good,” he says lightly and leads Will into the farmhouse.

Will’s first impression is that this cannot possibly be a property owned by Hannibal Lecter. Nothing about the decor matches anything Will’s ever seen from the man. There’s fur on the slightly used looking sofas and dog beds are strewn across the floor. It’s a strangely harmonious balance of sparse and homey and it puts Will in mind of New England and long, cool evenings spent enjoying quiet and nothing at all. Only the view outside the windows reminds him that he’s still in Italy. He thinks Abigail will like it here. It’s vaguely reminiscent of her father’s properties, but in an almost unconscious way. Just familiar enough to allow her to relax, but not so much as to frighten her.

Hannibal leads Will through the house in silence and Will feels a strange sense of belonging. It’s bigger than he would have chosen for himself, but he can’t help liking it. Only two rooms remind him that this was all Hannibal’s doing. Firstly, they pass a small, neat office that practically screams Hannibal’s name. Will starts to peer into it, but Hannibal reaches around him and closes the door.

“Just for me to keep up with my work over the weekends,” he says blandly and Will nods and it all seems so unnervingly reasonable. 

Then, of course, they reach the kitchen and Will reels. 

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, but this was one place I couldn’t bring myself to compromise. I promise I will make it worth it to you.”

Will tries to tell himself that Hannibal only means to cook for him.

After the tour, Hannibal turns to Will.

“Well?”

“Abigail will like it,” he says, eyes wandering anywhere but Hannibal.

“It wasn’t done with her in mind,” he replies and Will can feel those eyes on his face.

“You didn’t know if I’d come,” he tells the armchair in the corner of the living room.

“As I said, I was ready for any eventuality.”

Will swallows the urge to say thank you.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay tonight,” Hannibal says, suddenly all business again. “I have to be at work in the morning, but I’ll make us dinner before I go.”

❈❈❈

That night, Will lies awake with his dogs in a room that was clearly meant to be his. He’d almost chosen a different one just to spite Hannibal, but he couldn’t resist its draw. He can’t put his finger on what exactly about the space marks it so plainly as his own, but he knows that this is where Hannibal planned for him to be. The perfect trap, he supposes.

He spends the next day wandering the property, exploring the land with the dogs and thinking of what he might do with it. He doesn’t know much about farming, but he figures he can at least keep the olive grove alive, maybe even start a little kitchen garden. He catches himself thinking how much that might please Hannibal and feels angry at himself. It’s all just a fancy prison, after all, a well-furnished cage Hannibal has provided for him.

Very well-furnished, he discovers when he ventures into a small outbuilding to find a tidy little shop, complete with tools and an array of busted boat motors. 

Hannibal knows how to keep him calm, keep him compliant. 

He tries to figure out what Hannibal’s end game is, what the man is really after this time.

_ Isn’t it possible that maybe he does just want you to be happy? _ asks a small voice in the back of his mind.

_ No _ , he thinks, eyes narrowed as he tries to work it all out,  _ it’s not. _

❈❈❈

Days slip into weeks and Will is shocked when he suddenly realizes that he’s been living in the farmhouse for well over a month and that he’s become comfortable in his new routine. Hannibal brought him a pickup truck that he can use around the property as well as to drive into the nearby village to shop or visit the small library. The grocer smiles when he sees Will now, always calling him “our American,” and the butcher gives him little bundles of scraps for the dogs. Abigail comes to the farm most weekends and Hannibal is there on weekends and sometimes a few weeknights as well. Will thinks maybe he should be lonely. He’s learned only a handful of phrases in Italian and so has only Hannibal and Abigail to talk to and then only when they’re at the farm. But he’s not lonely. He has his dogs and he has the land. There are no grisly murders to pick apart and he’s starting to only see Jack Crawford’s stunned face in his dreams.

It’s on one of Hannibal’s weeknight visits that he informs Will that he’s going back to Florence. They’re eating dinner in comfortable silence, the dogs milling around them, but knowing better than to beg at the table, when Hannibal sets down his fork and manages to catch Will’s gaze before he can look away.

“I’m having a little dinner party on Friday and I want you to be there.”

“I don’t speak Italian,” Will says at once. It’s become his gut reaction whenever anyone tries to initiate unwanted interaction and, usually, it’s his get-out-of-jail-free card.

“These are my colleagues. They speak English.”

“From the library?”

Hannibal nods.

“Why do they want to meet me?”

“You’re my husband.”

Will blinks at this. He hasn’t actually had cause to use his new alias yet. No one has asked him his name and he pays for everything with the cash that Hannibal leaves for groceries so he hasn’t had to hand over a credit card or ID. They’re in his wallet, but he never looks at them, never has reason to. He’d somehow forgotten that Hannibal spends his days living another man’s life.

It’s telling, he supposes, that Hannibal chose for them to be married. According to the papers Hannibal had given him the night they’d left, Abigail is Hannibal’s daughter from a previous relationship and Will — or rather, Francis — had joined their family when Abigail — Andrea — had been six and they had raised her together with Francis being the stay-at-home parent. Will tries to tell himself that the marriage story is simply logical. Hannibal’s accent rules out them being close family and Roman’s work visa would cover his spouse. Still. Better not to think too hard about it and the possession it suggests.

“You know I’m not very good with strangers.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Hannibal smiles that twistedly benevolent smile. “It’s just a few people for dinner.”

Will feels himself blanch, but Hannibal just picks up his fork again.

“Keep eating,” he says. “You look pale.”


	4. Chapter 4

On Friday morning, Will wakes as usual, takes the dogs out for a romp, and then fixes them all breakfast. He puts off the drive into Florence for as long as he can, but he knows being late will only make it worse. Better to have time to settle back into the flat than to have to rush things. 

He feeds the dogs again before he leaves in the early afternoon and props the back door open for them; he doubts he’ll be back till the next morning and they're used to wandering the property. He takes a long look back at the safety of the house before getting into the truck and beginning his drive. He’d told Hannibal point blank that he wasn’t driving into the city itself so Hannibal had texted him the location of a park-and-ride and he plugs that into his phone and sets off. He tries to listen to the radio, but he hasn’t developed much of a taste for Euro-pop and the classical station just makes his stomach twist at the thought of dinner that evening. He settles on what the suspects is a news station and leaves the volume down low, the incomprehensible rhythm of words lulling his mind a little.

When he reaches the flat, Hannibal isn’t there yet, but he finds a note informing him that he’s planning to leave work early and would be “most pleased” to find Will showered and dressed when he arrives home. The note also lets him know that his clothes for the evening are in his closet. Will doesn’t think of any room in the flat as “his,” not the way he does at the farmhouse, but he knows what Hannibal meant and heads for the bathroom. He showers and shaves and then investigates the closet.

At least it isn’t one of Hannibal’s suits.

Will rolls his eyes, but dresses anyway. The suit is a soft gray, cut in the English style rather than the Italian. Will doesn’t have the build for an Italian suit; the extra bulk of the shoulders makes him look like he’s playing dress-up in his father’s closet. This cut gives a slight definition to his waist that even Will can see is flattering. The shirt is mercifully white and simple, but the silk tie is a bright blue that matches his eyes almost perfectly.

When he looks in the mirror, his first thought is, _ I look so gay _ . But it’s quickly followed by the realization that he also looks good. Sure, it’s all about playing the part in front of their guests, but he can’t help taking a moment to really inspect his reflection. He’s never given much attention to his appearance and since the farm he’s cared less and less, allowing his hair to grow shaggy and not always bothering to shave. Now, with his face smooth, his longer hair makes him look pleasantly boyish and he thinks that if he can remember to smile maybe he’ll look like the kind of person who would be happy to raise the daughter of the man he loves.

Will is still trying to wrap his mind around who he sees in the mirror when he hears the door open. He turns quickly, somehow feeling it would be wrong for Hannibal to catch him in this moment, and meets Hannibal in the front room. Hannibal smiles when he sees him and Will feels like he’s being x-rayed, like Hannibal is taking in far more than his clothes.

“It suits you,” he says at last.

Will swallows the urge to ask how Hannibal knew his measurements so well. He doesn’t think he really wants to know.

Hannibal turns without another word and heads into the kitchen. Will follows him mutely and watches from the doorway as Hannibal begins to unpack produce. Hannibal glances up at him and smiles and begins to tell Will about the dishes he will be serving that night. Will lets the words wash over him. He doesn’t care about the names of the foods, only what the star ingredient will be.

He has no way to know what Hannibal’s been doing here in Florence. The arrival of their guests will be the first real proof to Will that the job at the library even exists. He doubts that Hannibal would have been killing here in the flat; all else aside, there simply isn’t enough space to butcher the meat. But if anyone is capable of finding a good place to butcher human bodies in a strange city, it’s Hannibal Lecter.

“Did you hear me, Will?”

“What?”

“I asked if you’d read the papers I left you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hannibal had given him more details on Roman and Francis’s history together and Will had read them, memorizing the lies of how they’d met, where they’d gotten married, how their parents had taken it, the whole nine yards. “Do you need any help?” he asks.

“You may dice those,” he says, indicating some onions.

Will nods, knowing better now than to bother commenting on Hannibal’s word choice. His knife work has improved since the first time Hannibal allowed him to assist in this kitchen. They’ve cooked together almost every weekend since Will moved to the farm and Will has learned Hannibal’s patterns in the kitchen, can anticipate his moves and knows when to get out of the way and when to offer assistance.

The dishes are beautiful, whatever they are. Hannibal brings the meat from the refrigerator, wrapped in butcher paper and string just like when Will buys it in the village, but Hannibal is perfectly capable of wrapping up meat himself. Will has been dismissed to set the table and light the candles when the first knock comes at the door.

“Could you get the door, Francis?” Hannibal calls and it takes Will a moment to remember that Francis is him. 

He takes a deep breath and goes to meet their first guest. He opens the door to find a tall, dark-haired woman on the other side. She is smartly dressed in a skirt suit and heels and she holds a bottle of red wine. She smiles when she sees Will and kisses him on each cheek before even speaking.

“You must be Francis,” she says, her voice rich with a history of French. “Roman has told us so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Will manages to say.

“Of course,” says Hannibal, emerging from the kitchen.

Will feels a gut punch of familiarity at the sight. Hannibal stands with a clean dish towel over one shoulder and his apron tied around his hips. He still has his sleeves rolled up and is without his jacket, but his vest is immaculate. He looks just as he had every time Will had seen him preparing dinner for him and Jack back in Baltimore, back in a different lifetime. 

“Roman,” says the woman warmly and they perform the cheek-kissing routine that had so taken Will by surprise. It’s a bizarre thing to watch Hannibal do with such casual grace.

“Francis, this is Marguerite Roche.”

“Pleasure to meet you Ms. Roche.”

“Marguerite, please.”

“Marguerite.”

“I’m afraid I’m still in the kitchen,” Hannibal says with a little self-deprecating smile that shocks Will. “But allow me to get you something to drink.”

Their other guests arrive in short succession until they are a party of seven. Will suspects that Hannibal prefers to eat in odd numbers as it gives him the perfect excuse to sit at the head of the table and survey his domain. Will smiles and sips his frustratingly weak cocktail and tries to keep up with the conversation. He suspects Hannibal is purposefully limiting his intake of alcohol and can’t help but be grateful when Hannibal finishes in the kitchen and joins them.

“And what do you do, Francis?” asks a Mrs. Angela Lombardi, the wife of one of Hannibal’s — Roman’s — coworkers.

It’s the first time Will’s been called upon to regurgitate the backstory Hannibal had written for them and he takes a sip of his drink to give himself a moment to put the words together.

“Still recovering from being a stay-at-home father,” he says, smiling in a way that he hopes says “slightly lost empty-nester.”

Angela nods sympathetically.

“Our youngest started at university in Naples this semester. Roman tells us your daughter is studying in Rome, but that she often comes to visit. We had hoped we might catch a glimpse of her tonight.”

“Preparing for her midterms, I’m afraid,” Hannibal says at once and Will tries not to frown as he considers if this is the first true thing the man has said all evening. “Francis is spending his days working on a farm we purchased about an hour outside the city.”

“How lovely,” exclaims Marguerite. “I grew up on a little farm in Lozère.”

“They say that the fishing is excellent there,” Hannibal remarks. “It is true?”

“Oh yes,” Marguerite tells them.

“Then I must take my Francis there posthaste.”

A timer goes off in the kitchen and Hannibal is on his feet.

“Excuse me a moment.”

“You fish?” Marguerite asks.

“Oh. Yes. I mean, I used to, before we moved here.”

There’s a slightly awkward lull in the conversation in which Will has no idea what to say until someone finally takes mercy on him.

“So, Francis, how did you and Roman meet? He tells us so little at work.”

_ Imagine that, _ Will thinks bitterly.

“We met in America, in Baltimore,” he says, trying desperately not to sound like he’s reciting a monologue. “My captain brought Roman in to consult on a case and we hit it off.”

“You were in the army?”

“Police. I was a detective.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you close the case?”

“We did, thanks to Roman. But it was… unpleasant. I’ll spare you the details since we’re about to eat, but let’s just say that that case made it a lot easier to decide to leave the force after we got married.”

“And you followed him all the way to Italy?”

“We have been married almost twelve years.” Will hopes his smile looks fond rather than forced.

“And what a marvelous twelve years it has been,” Hannibal says, sweeping back in from the kitchen, and landing his hand on the small of Will’s back. 

He’s in his jacket now, perfectly immaculate and smiling graciously. Will turns to look at him and suddenly they are kissing.

Will manages not to jerk away, not to let the shock show on his face, but it’s a struggle. It only lasts a moment, a simple peck between a long-married couple and it makes their guests smile, but it rocks Will to his core. Hannibal has never kissed him before. It’s so brief that he barely has time to feel the heat of Hannibal’s mouth let alone react before Hannibal’s attention is back on their guests and yet Will feels his world reeling, feels like he might fall to his death. Hannibal did it so lightly, so easily, but there is no doubt in Will’s mind that Hannibal knew what it would do to him. He took a risk in front of these people simply to be cruel and controlling and yet… And yet…

And yet Will feels an almost foreign surge of desire within him. He wants to grab Hannibal and make him pay for that little move and he isn’t sure if he wants his money in sex or blood.

“Dinner is ready,” Hannibal says, smiling at them all.

They move to the table, Hannibal pulling out the chairs for the ladies and then for Will as well, seating him at his left hand before returning to the kitchen for the food.

It’s stunning, whatever it is. Hannibal does his usual presentation of the dishes and then begins to serve them. He reaches Will last, but doesn’t put any of the food on his plate, instead he sets the platter down and goes into the kitchen once more. The plate he brings Will is different and that fact alone scares him more than he cares to examine.

“I’m afraid my Francis’s one flaw is that he’s a strict vegetarian,” Hannibal says, smiling as he sets Will’s food down in front of him. “Please, enjoy.”

Will looks around as their guests begin to eat and wants to throw up. It isn’t the act itself that disgusts him anymore. He’d had to put that behind him in order to keep a hold on what remained of his sanity after he’d unraveled Hannibal’s workings back in Baltimore. No, now what makes him want to retch is the ignorance of these people and the way Hannibal smiles at their compliments and the power he’s gained in violating their bodies and moralities so deeply. And at the way he smiles right along with Hannibal. 

❈❈❈

Hannibal stands with his arm around Will’s waist as they bid their guests goodnight. The second the door closes, however, Will wrenches himself away from Hannibal’s touch.

“You didn’t enjoy your dinner?” Hannibal asks, perfectly calm.

Will is breathing too fast, his earlier nausea returning in heavy waves.

“What the hell did you feed to those people?” he demands, pushing sickness into anger lest the former come out instead.

“Do you really want to ask me that question?”

“Yes, I really do.” Will glares at Hannibal. He’s done being a prisoner, being a pet, being a plaything in Hannibal’s twisted games. “You said you’d stop lying to me.”

“And I have. I told you nothing that was untrue.”

Stupid semantics. 

“You said, next time I'd know,” he insists, gesturing angrily towards the remains of the meal.

“I said, next time  _ you _ ate human flesh you would know. You haven't done that, Will. I promise.” His voice is smooth and calm, which only makes Will’s anger burn brighter.

“But they did. Didn't they.” He meets Hannibal’s cool gaze, daring the man to lie to him again.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Damnit, Hannibal!” Will bursts out, turning away and striding across the room. He hadn’t expected Hannibal to give up his… hobbies, not really, but he had hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it would be over, that the man could change — or at least stop inflicting his depravities on those around him. Will runs a hand through his hair and tries a different tact. “You know if you get caught, all three of us will be over. Does this matter enough to you to risk Abigail?”

Will hopes that will at least give him pause, but Hannibal doesn’t miss a beat.

“No one will look for him.”

“I don’t care!”

The shout propels him back around to face Hannibal and he feels wild, untethered from all the rules of the world that he had learned to obey. He can feel himself shaking and yet Hannibal is still simply standing there, calm and relaxed, which makes Will feel like he’s somehow the insane one in this situation. He works his jaw for a long moment. He can feel the confinement of the suit and tie, but isn’t sure his hands are steady enough to get the damn things off.

“Who was he?” he finally asks.

Hannibal raises one pale eyebrow.

“You want to know?” he asks placidly.

“Yes!”

Hannibal sighs, but turns and heads into his office. A few moments later, he returns with two sheets of paper and offers them to Will. He takes them, scanning the text there and trying to understand it, desperately seeking some modicum of sense is this nightmare. Both pages are print-outs of the same news site, presumably the same article — one in Italian and one in English. Will’s mind won’t take in the details, but he manages to get the broad strokes. A child molester, repeat offender, escaped justice on a technicality — surely guilty, but now untouchable by the law.

“You expect me to believe this?” he asks, looking up at Hannibal. “You're not a vigilante.”

“No, I am not,” he agrees.

“Then why-?”

“I thought you would approve. Or at least, disapprove less.”

Will feels the words like a blow to the gut and for a moment he can’t breathe, as if Hannibal really had knocked the wind from his body.

Hannibal had killed a man. For him. Hannibal had bent his very nature just for him. He had taken Will’s long-term feelings into his plan, set aside a little of his narcissism to try to ensure that Will would stay. It feels like the most intimate gift in the world and Will doesn't know what to think or say. He takes a long, steadying breath, feeling Hannibal’s eyes boring into him.

“This isn’t okay,” he says at last, voice quiet and weak.

“You knew who I was when you agreed to come with me.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Will asks, bitterly.

“You could have not murdered an FBI agent,” Hannibal points out. “You could have waited for backup, made sure I was caught.”

Will doesn’t have an answer for that and Hannibal moves towards him, slowly and carefully as if afraid he might startle away the wild thing that Will has become.

“This is what you agreed to, Will. Whether consciously or not, you decided that this was what you wanted.”

Hannibal has him there, but Will is loath to admit it. The anger is still coursing through his veins, painfully hot. He doesn’t know when exactly this had happened, when he’d become the kind of man who made decisions like the ones he had. Surely, before he’d met Hannibal, the notion that he would ever betray the FBI, much less murder a friend, would have been unthinkable to him. Yet here he is and he doesn't exactly have to look far for the reason why.

“You made me this way,” he snarls, defensive and angry like a cornered dog.

Hannibal smirks at him.

“You were always this way, dear Will. I simply helped you to see it.”

Will wants to hit him for that, wants to punch that smug little smile right off his face. He wants to throw his weight against the man standing before him like he’s done nothing wrong in his life and knock him to the ground, beat him to bleeding and beyond. He wants…

“Fuck you,” he spits, trying to force his anger outward again, away from himself and towards Hannibal. He tugs the suit jacket off roughly and tosses it onto a chair. He wonders if he can still get a bus back to the park-and-ride at this hour. He could drive back to the farm, throw the dogs in the pick-up, and go… somewhere. Somewhere far, far from Hannibal. He could worry about Abigail later, once he’d gotten his bearings again. He couldn’t help her like this anyway.

He’s about to turn, go and get his wallet and keys from his jeans when suddenly Hannibal is in front of him, bodily blocking his path.

“I need you to stop lying to yourself, Will, or this isn’t going to work.” He says it like they’re sitting in his office back in Baltimore.

“There is no  _ this _ ,” Will spits back, gesturing furiously at the small, empty space between them.

“Then tell me why you’re here.”

Will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can’t say he’s doing it for Abigail; when he’d killed Jack, he’d thought she was dead, murdered at Hannibal’s hand. He can’t say he’s doing it for himself, not unless he wants to surrender to a whole new kind of insanity. That only leaves one option, the option that he’s been desperately trying to keep himself from facing since he’d killed Jack Crawford.

He’s here because of Hannibal.

He’s here because he couldn't bear to let Hannibal go.

He’s here because the one thing, out of all the horrors fate had thrown at him, that he couldn’t bring himself to face was a life without Hannibal.

Hannibal, it seems, can see Will’s thoughts in his eyes and his little smile grows fractionally.

Will still wants to hurt him, wants to break him and see him suffer the way he’s made Will suffer. He wants to see Hannibal’s blood for a change. His muscles start to tense for motion, for attack. He feels like he’s burning, wild fire to Hannibal’s unmoving ice. He can read nothing in the man’s face and it only makes him angrier.

Hannibal, however, can read Will look a book.

Before Will can act, Hannibal’s hand has shot out and grabbed his tie tightly, just below the knot. He jerks it, hard, and Will can feel it pull taut around his throat, like a noose. He stumbles forward, barely regaining his balance before he’s chest-to-chest with Hannibal. In that one motion, Hannibal has Will at his mercy. Again. Like always. 

For a single moment, Will is held perfectly balanced between flight and fight. He’s looking straight into Hannibal’s eyes from mere inches away. Adrenalin is singing through his body, readying him for either course of action, his muscles tense and waiting to spring. In that moment, held between heavy breaths, Will doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Will he run? Can he run? Can Hannibal let him? But if he fights…

Will might never have been a proper FBI field agent, but he’d been a cop before finding the refuge of his lecture hall and it’s this training that kicks his brain back into gear. With Hannibal so close to him and controlling his neck, there’s not a lot he can do, but he manages to bring one foot down, hard, on Hannibal’s instep. Hannibal reels back, but doesn’t let go of Will’s tie, pulling him along for a few stumbling steps until his back hits a bookcase. Will presses his slight advantage, jerking his arm up between them and managing to strike Hannibal's wrist hard enough that he lets go and leaves room for Will to slam his forearm into Hannibal’s throat.

Hannibal gets one hand on Will’s elbow, but Will catches the other and pins it to the wood of the bookcase, digging blunt nails into delicate skin. Hannibal is pushing hard on his elbow, but Will has the better leverage as he leans his weight into the man’s windpipe. He’s breathing hard and Hannibal is gasping shallowly and Will’s blood is pounding in his ears and Hannibal’s body is hot against his and he feels dizzy and overwhelmed and maybe if he just presses hard enough on Hannibal’s throat then things will start to make sense again.

“Like controlling me?” Hannibal chokes out and Will blinks, grip relaxing slightly.

Hannibal only needs that single instant of distraction to throw Will off him with a hard blow to the chest. Will staggers backwards a few steps and then Hannibal is on him again. He lands a punch on Will’s jaw and Will tastes blood.

“There’s clearly a lot you’re still not dealing with, Will,” Hannibal says, his panting undermining his psychoanalytical tone. 

Will throws himself at Hannibal, but Hannibal is ready for him this time and catches Will’s shoulder, translating the energy of Will’s charge and throwing him bodily into the bookcase.

Will barely has time to be grateful that he’s pretty sure his nose isn’t broken before Hannibal is on him once more, weight bearing him down to the floor. Hannibal’s knee is hard in the small of his back and his hands quickly find Will’s flailing wrists and then he’s pinned.

Will’s breathing heavily through a bloody nose, the side of his face pressed against the hardwood. He knows Hannibal could wrench his arms back until his shoulders screamed, but instead he holds Will to the ground, breathing hot and fast on Will’s neck.

“Is this what you wanted?” Hannibal pants. “For me to make you stay? To give you an excuse?”

Will struggles against him, but Hannibal clearly knows how to hold a body still.

“I know you, Will. I know what you want. I think it’s time the truth went both ways. It would be much better for both of us.” Hannibal is still a little breathless, but he’s already regained the composure of his speech. 

Will, however, only feels more desperate, more angry. He wants to shout at Hannibal that he doesn’t know him, has no idea what he wants, but, of course, that would be a lie. He hates how intimately Hannibal knows him. It may be novel and thrilling for Hannibal to finally have someone understand him, but for Will it’s terrifying and it’s one more way Hannibal has power over him. He’s sick of it, sick of feeling controlled and manipulated. Sick of being a piece in Hannibal’s game. Sick of always feeling like he’s playing catch-up, like Hannibal is always ten steps ahead of him. He’s sick of losing and he’s not going to keep playing the game any longer.

Fueled by his rage, Will bucks his whole body as hard as he can and manages to throw Hannibal off his back. He keeps the momentum going and is on his knees in time to see Hannibal sprawled on his ass, looking off balance for the first time Will can remember. He scrambles to press his advantage, throwing himself at Hannibal, trying to pin him for a change.

They both land hard, but Will ends up on top, knees on either side of Hannibal’s stomach, hands on either side of his head so they are face to face. He can feel Hannibal twisting to dislodge him and he can feel… other things. Of course, Hannibal’s getting off on this; what did he expect from a man who fucking eats people?

“You’re a sick fuck, Lecter,” he growls.

Hannibal stills beneath him for a moment, head tilted slightly to one side as if considering something.

“I suppose that’s your phone, then?”

Will somehow feels more heat rise in his face. In the struggle, he’d failed to notice his own body reacting. For God’s sake, he is not going to get off on this too. He is not going to get off on Hannibal or on controlling him or on hurting him or…

Will pushes himself up roughly and, before he can think better of it, hauls off and punches Hannibal in the face as hard as he can.

Hannibal’s head whips to the side and blood sprays from his nose. 

And he cuts his eyes to Will’s face and smiles.

Will gulps down nausea and Hannibal surges forward, toppling Will again.

This time, there’s dark fire in Hannibal’s eyes when Will looks up into his face from flat on his back. His head is throbbing where it slammed into the floor. Hannibal has him pinned again, a hand on each wrist and one leg between Will’s, thighs clamped tight around Will’s leg. He’s breathless again and Will shudders as a few drops of the man’s blood fall onto his face. A wicked smile twists his face and Will hates how much he’s clearly enjoying this.

Will struggles, but Hannibal’s leaning most of his weight onto Will’s wrists and obviously has no intention of letting him go. Will is winded and dizzy, the energy to fight starting to slip from his body. It seems their battle is over.

But Hannibal, of course, has more weapons and he won’t be done till he’s used them all. He shifts his weight, rubbing his thigh roughly against Will. Will twists, trying to break the contact, hating how good it feels, how badly he wants to give in and raise his hips to meet Hannibal’s body. Hannibal’s face is low over his own and the only way to not look at him is to close his eyes. But even when he does he can still feel Hannibal’s breath on his face.

Will feels humiliated, exposed and helpless as he is. Hannibal has yet again utterly unraveled him and he hates it beyond words. At least he made the bastard bleed as well. And yet he wants Hannibal, wants him so badly it hurts, his whole body aching for him. He bites his lip and tastes blood that could be either of theirs. He opens his eyes and finds Hannibal’s face inches from his own and in the moment their eyes meet Hannibal shifts his body to give Will a sudden wave of sensation. Before he can stop himself, Will feels a low sound of longing sliding from his open lips and his is arching up, pressing his shoulders into the floor to try to raise his body to Hannibal’s. It’s foul and even in the moment he hates himself for it, but it’s all that he wants.

Hannibal smiles and, in one smooth motion, pushes himself off of Will and rises to his feet.

Will lies on the floor, bloody and gasping and painfully aroused.

“It’s late,” Hannibal says, straightening his suit as if nothing had happened, as if he’s not obviously still hard. “Go to bed.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and delicately dabs the blood from his face.

Will scrambles to his feet, trying in vain to cover his own arousal. He glares at Hannibal, breathing hard through his nose as he tries to work out what to do. His mind is full of blood and sex and he can’t think. But then it all crystallizes and he sees how he can take this moment back.

He lets his shoulders slump, lets the fight go out of his body. He drops his gaze to Hannibal’s shoes and wipes his bloody nose on his sleeve like a petulant child.

“Okay,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“What was that?” Hannibal asks, all politeness.

“Okay,” Will says again. “I’ll go to bed.”

“Very good.”

Will nods mutely. Hannibal flicks his eyes to the door of his bedroom and then raises his eyebrows at Will, the order obvious. Will steps back to clear the way for Hannibal, eyes still lowered. Hannibal is almost past him when Will strikes.

He grabs Hannibal’s wrist and wrenches him around so they are face to face. He lets the extra momentum carry them back into the bookcase and they fall against it and Will is kissing Hannibal as hard as he can.

It’s rough and dirty and tastes of blood. For a fraction of a second, Hannibal doesn’t respond and then he is kissing Will back. Teeth tug at split lips and blood flows between mouths and Will can’t think. One of his hands is still on Hannibal’s wrist, clutching it like a lifeline. His other hand seems to have a mind of its own, skittering desperately over Hannibal’s body from chest to arm to face to hair to back, clutching at anything he can. Hannibal’s free hand is on his waist, pulling him closer. They’re pressed together and Will can’t restrain the animal lust that moves his body against Hannibal’s. His mind is flooded with the sensation of it all, the rest of the world blocked out, and Will feels incredibly free.

Will kisses Hannibal until he feels the threat of a blackout on the edges of his mind and then he jerks back and simply walks away. He leaves Hannibal breathless against the bookcase as he stalks past him to his room. He grabs his keys and wallet before striding to the front door. Hannibal is still leaning against the bookcase, silently watching Will’s movements.

Will doesn’t look back before he slams the heavy door as hard as he can and so he doesn’t see Hannibal’s smile, the smile of a man whose plan has worked perfectly.

❈❈❈

Will manages to hail and a cab and explain to the driver what he wants. When they reach the parking lot, he hands the driver some cash and gathers from the man’s tone that he’s given him enough or more. He gets the truck on the road, the task of driving mellowing his mind just enough that he’s actually able to think for the first time since he’d stormed from the flat.

He thinks that if it wasn’t for the dogs, he probably would have told the cab driver to take him to the train station or airport where he would have gotten the first ticket to somewhere far, far away. If it wasn’t for the dogs…

Will slams one hand against the steering wheel in anger. How could he have been so stupid as to think that Hannibal had brought his dogs all the way to Italy just to make him  _ happy _ ? Of course he hadn’t done that; this was Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake fucking Ripper and God only knows how many other uncaught killers. The dogs were just part of the trap, just another way to keep Will from running. 

He’s shocked and angry to feel hot tears burning in his eyes. The revelation is so obvious. He shouldn’t be upset. He should have seen it weeks ago. But he can’t help it. He had finally allowed himself to believe that Hannibal really did give a fuck about him. He should never have let his guard down.

When he reaches the farmhouse, he doesn’t want to go inside the cage Hannibal had so meticulously designed for him. But he also can’t fathom spending a moment longer in the clothes Hannibal had chosen. Of course, most of the clothes here were bought by Hannibal as well, but at least those are more to his taste. He goes inside, takes care of the dogs, and heads to the bathroom.

He looks a real mess and realizes, for the first time, how lucky he was that the cab driver had taken him at all.

Blood is congealed in his hair and dried across his face and shirt, one long smear showing where he’d wiped his nose on his sleeve. He’s still pale, though the bruise blooming across his jaw and cheek hides some of that. He unbuttons his shirt, fingers working automatically, and lets it fall to the floor, revealing another bruise on his chest and many smaller ones on his wrists. He washes his face, eyes screwed tight shut against the sight of blood spiraling down the drain. He gets most of his head under the faucet and rinses his hair as best he can. He scrambles out of the suit pants and only when he’s standing there in nothing but his underwear does he realize that the tie vanished somewhere between Hannibal’s fist and his bathroom floor. Did he take it off in the cab? He isn’t sure. 

He shakes his head in an effort to dispel water and the fear of losing time again. He goes to his room, puts on clean boxers and a t-shirt and gets into bed. Most of the dogs are piled around him and he’s grateful for their quiet presence. He hopes he can get to sleep before too many hours slip past him.


	5. Chapter 5

Will stands alone in the living room. The farmhouse is dark and very still. He wonders vaguely where the dogs are. He goes up the stairs and steps into the antler room of Garrett Jacob Hobbes’s cabin. The room is long and dark and Will can’t make out what’s at the other end, but he hears dripping and smells the sour-sweet tang of blood. He walks slowly towards the sound, antlers looming up out of the darkness at him. He gets the feeling that someone — or something — is keeping pace with him on the other side of the thicket, but, when he turns to look, there’s nothing there.

He finally reaches the far end of the room and sees that a body mounted on the antlers. Blood is dripping from its slit throat and the punctures through its chest. Will squints, trying to make out who it is. The figure slowly raises its head and Will sees that it is Jack Crawford. He takes a step back, but slips in a puddle of blood that has dripped from his own hands. He lands hard and looks down to see that he is covered in blood, hot and fresh. He hears Jack take a long, wet breath and when he looks up at the man their eyes meet and he cannot tear his gaze away. 

“Will,” he rasps. “I thought you were one of the good guys.”

“You never thought that,” Will says, voice shaking as he scoots backwards through the growing pool of blood, but he doesn’t seem to get any farther away from Jack.

“I thought you valued life.”

There’s a terrible sucking noise and Jack has pulled himself free from the antlers, landing heavily on his feet. He advances on Will, head wobbling dangerously on his severed neck. He slowly pulls his gun from its holster and, scramble as he might, Will cannot make the distance between them grow. Jack levels the gun at him.

“You’re as bad as Lecter. Aren’t you?”

“No!” Will shouts, not sure if he is crying out against the gun or the accusation. 

He’s sure Jack is about to shoot him when he hears another sound and they both turn to look back towards the stairs. The shape Will had sensed appears out of the shadows. The stage is huge. It moves delicately through the blood and steps over Will’s sprawled form to stand between him and Jack. It lowers its head so that its antlers are leveled at Jack’s chest and, somehow, Will can see that they line up perfectly with the holes that are already there from where someone — Will? — had mounted him on the wall.

“He is mine,” says the stag with Hannibal’s calm voice. “You know he’s always been mine.”

The stag jabs its head forward and impales Jack again. The man cries out, but only for a moment. The stag lifts its head, now crowned with Jack’s limp body. Will can see blood running down the stag’s antlers and onto its neck. 

The stag begins to turn and suddenly Will is frozen with bone-deep terror. He doesn’t want to see the stag’s face. He knows whose face it will be and he cannot even comprehend the horror of that sight. His breathing becomes so rapid it hurts, but he can’t move, can’t even blink. His heart feels like it’s going to burst from his chest, just a few more drops in the ocean of blood now rising towards his neck.

“Will?” 

Still Hannibal’s voice.

Will shakes his head, trying desperately to close his eyes and failing again and again.

“Will? Will, it’s alright. It’s alright.”

“Hannibal!”

The name tears itself from Will’s throat as he sits bolt-upright in bed. He is drenched in sweat and breathing like he’s just run for his life. His eyes dart to all the darkest places in the room. 

“Hannibal?”

But he is alone.

Will swings his legs out of bed, body shaky and weak. He has to sit there for a long moment before he feels at all confident that his legs will support his weight. The dogs approach him, nosing at his hands and trying to find the cause of his obvious distress. Will touches them gently, finding reassurance of reality in their soft, warm fur. He gets slowly to his feet and goes downstairs, turning on every light he passes.

The house is empty save for him and the dogs.

He nearly has a heart attack when the door to the room Hannibal sleeps in wavers, but it’s only Buster, pushing his way out into the hall to investigate the noise and light. He’s taken to sleeping there, right in the middle of the bed, when Hannibal is in Florence. Damn traitor. Will had saved the little beast’s life when Hannibal had sent Randel Teir to kill him. 

Will and the pack make their way to the kitchen where Will drinks several glasses of cold water. The fear from his dream is still heavy around him like a lead blanket. He’s dreamed of much worse things — seen much worse things — and yet something about it was terrifying in a way that goes beyond the everyday horrors he saw with the FBI. He knows he woke up before the stag turned to him, knows that he never saw its face, but he’s still terrified of the sight. He can’t explain it, not even in his own mind.

He sips the water, watching the pre-dawn light tinting the olive trees he can see from the kitchen window. Eventually, he sets the glass down and goes to the living room. He pauses, but gives in to the impulse and walks quickly up the stairs, but the only place he finds himself is the upstairs hallway. He sighs and goes back down. 

Will curls up the sofa and several dogs pile on top of him. He reaches for the book he’s been reading and opens it. No point in trying to sleep now. The best he can do is try not to think.

❈❈❈

When Will wakes again, it’s fully morning. He sits up, stretching sore muscles that did not enjoy several hours of sleep on the couch under the awkwardly distributed weight of his strays. He looks around, frowning. Something feels wrong and it’s not just waking up in the living room. He’s fairly certain that it’s Saturday and yet it doesn’t feel like Saturday. He’s about to chalk it up to having been in Florence the night before when he realizes what it is that feels so wrong to him. He swallows the bile in his throat and rubs angrily at his face.

It feels wrong because there’s no smell of coffee. No matter what time he wakes up on the weekends, it’s always to the smell of Hannibal’s incredible coffee, hot and fresh and waiting for him in the kitchen. Breakfast too, usually, but it seems it’s the coffee that has settled into his brain.

Will gets up and stomps into the kitchen. He’s an adult man. He’s been making his own coffee since he was in junior high. Granted, most of those years were fueled by the instant variety, but he can work Hannibal’s stupid french press just fine. 

He feels foolish, making coffee as aggressively as possible, but he can’t help it. He’s angry at Hannibal for not being there and he’s angry at himself for wanting Hannibal to be there. And for wondering when Hannibal will show up again. He mutters darkly as he works, saying very rude things about Hannibal to the dogs until the coffee is finished and he can fix it up just the way he likes it.

It’s not as good as when Hannibal makes it.

❈❈❈

Will spends the next several days in a tense haze. Every sound sends him to the window, looking to see if Hannibal has appeared at last, but he hasn’t. Will and the pack go on long, restless walks around the property. He tries to keep moving, keep working, keep himself from thinking and yet the thoughts chase themselves around and around his mind. Hannibal is killing again. Not only that, he’s butchering his victims and Will can’t even dare to speculate what he’s doing with the parts he doesn’t deem fit to serve to his guests. The evening whirls through his mind again and again: the glint in Hannibal’s eyes when he’d presented him with his vegetarian dish, his smile as he watched his coworkers eat, his body pressed to Will’s, the taste of blood in their mouths.

He isn’t sure if he’s more grateful that Hannibal’s keeping his distance or more worried that something’s gone wrong. 

Monday comes and goes and still no Hannibal. Will supposes he could call the flat or the library; he has the numbers somewhere and there’s a landline in the living room, but something holds him back. He doesn’t have anything in particular he wants to say to Hannibal (expect perhaps, “You better still be alive and not in prison, you crazy piece of shit”) and the idea of having a casual phone conversation with him is just too much for Will. It would be too disturbingly normal, he thinks, to call Hannibal up while he’s at work or making dinner in the flat just to check in, like they really are married. All calling would achieve would be awkwardness and a sense of surrender on Will’s part. If something had happened to Hannibal, if he had been caught, surely someone would have come out to the farm to either arrest or rescue Will by now. Surely.

Still, the dogs pick up on his tension and the days seem long and he hates how often his thoughts stray to Hannibal. On Friday he gives into his fears and drives to the village to buy a newspaper before remembering that they don’t sell any English-language papers in the tiny shop. He thinks for a moment and then heads for the library instead. There, after making a series of expressive eyebrow motions and miming typing, the ancient librarian escorts him to an equally ancient computer. 

He knows better than to simply type “Hannibal Lecter” into Google and there’s no way to secure his network access so he spends some time browsing various news sites. He finds no lurid headlines about Florence-area murderers so perhaps Hannibal wasn’t lying about his victim’s past — or at least, he’s chosen a more subtle method of body disposal. He slowly makes his way to the Baltimore Sun website. He hasn’t had any real news from home since they’d left and now he doesn’t have to fake his interest in a variety of articles. However, he can’t deny to himself that he’s looking for a certain topic.

It doesn’t take him long to find an article headlined CHESAPEAKE RIPPER AKA DR. HANNIBAL LECTER STILL AT LARGE, which offers Will a helpful crash course on the FBI’s efforts to find and catch Hannibal. Will smiles to himself. They aren’t even close. The article links him to other reports on Hannibal’s crimes and disappearance — and his own. Will reads about his suspected murder at Hannibal’s hand, though one article theorizes that he is alive with Hannibal and that he did, in fact, commit at least some of the murders he went to trial for. Will manages not to go to TattleCrime to see if Freddie Lounds is in this camp as well, though he is fairly sure he knows the answer to that question. He doesn’t look for Jack’s name and doesn’t see it. Maybe someone finally took pity. 

He also finds an interview. 

He wishes he could go back in time and tell his former self that Alana Bloom would never love him, but she would give a Rolling Stone interview about him. Maybe that Will Graham could have smiled about it. But now, he feels like doing anything but. He feels almost dizzy, guilt over his disappearance washing through him for the first time. Once he’d seen his dogs safe and sound, he’d rather forgotten that anyone else might actually miss him. He doesn’t want to read the whole article, can’t bring himself to, but he also can’t keep his eyes from moving over it.

_ Rolling Stone _ _ : Do you think it’s safe to say that Mr. Graham was the Ripper’s last known victim? _

_ Dr. Bloom: Will Graham had a complicated relationship with Dr. Lecter. It’s hard to say for certain how it would have ended. _

_ Rolling Stone _ _ : But what to do you believe? _

_ Dr. Bloom: [sighs heavily] I want to believe that Will is still alive. His dogs vanished at about the same time that he and Hannibal did and, from what I understand, it looked like someone took them, not like they ran away. Will loved those dogs more than anything else in the world. _

_ Rolling Stone _ _ : You think he went on the run with a bunch of dogs? _

_ Dr. Bloom: It wouldn’t surprise me. _

_ Rolling Stone _ _ : But was he running from Lecter or with him? _

Dr. Bloom pauses. She takes a moment to compose herself and then offers me a strained yet professional smile.

_ Dr. Bloom: I knew both of them professionally and personally so you can understand why it’s hard for me to be objective. If Will is alive, none of his options are good. A life on the run or a life with Hannibal as his prisoner — or even as his accomplice. But if he is dead, well, the best to be hoped for it that Hannibal’s… relationship with Will meant that he didn’t suffer in the end. [Another pause and heavy sigh.] If I’m being honest with myself, I think the most likely answer is that Will is dead. _

Will wants to shut the computer down the second he reads this, but he forces himself to keep browsing for a while, letting his path wander casually away from the Ripper case before logging off and thanking the librarian for her help. He makes the trip back to the farm in a haze. It’s all too much, just too damn much. It’s evening when he pulls into the long driveway and the first thing he notices is that the dogs are out and roaming despite having been left shut in the house. Will slows his speed and the dogs accompany him up to the house where, of course, he sees a familiar black car parked out front.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he mutters to himself.

He doesn’t want to deal with Hannibal. He really, really does not want to deal with Hannibal. He knows Hannibal will be charming and handsome and probably cooking something amazing. Will shakes his head. Hannibal is neither charming nor handsome, he tells himself firmly. And eating anything the man has cooked should really be on the very bottom of his to do list. It’s not like he’s  _ missed _ Hannibal. That would be insane. He’s been worried, yes, but only because of what Hannibal’s capture would have meant for Abigail. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Will grits his teeth and goes inside. 

Hannibal, predictably, is in the kitchen. Will can smell butter and meat the moment he enters the house. Hannibal has his back to the kitchen doorway, cooking something in a large pan. Will leans against the doorframe, waiting for Hannibal to come to him. Hannibal keeps his attention on his work, adding vegetables to the pan and working with unnecessary flair for several minutes. Will waits. He’s patient. The dogs mill around him, sniffing at the air and nosing at both men, but they are ignored. 

At last, Hannibal turns off the stove and faces Will.

And says nothing.

Will glares at him, feeling suddenly exposed and tense.

“I need you to look after the dogs for a few days,” he snaps finally.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows ever so slightly before shifting back to the pan and starting to plate whatever he’s prepared. It smells amazing. 

“Oh? And why is that?” he asks.

“I’m making a trip.”

Will sees Hannibal hesitate for a brief moment.

“Where to exactly?”

“Far enough away that I can make a phone call.”

Hannibal glances over at him. 

“Will, stop being cryptic and tell me what you're planning.”

_ Hypocrite. _

“I need to call Alana. I’ll get out of the country, buy a burner phone, call when she won’t pick up.” He’s thought it through. It’ll be fine. Even if the FBI manages to trace the call, it won’t lead them to the right place. Surely the notion that a man like Hannibal would have fled to Europe has already crossed their minds.

“Will.”

“She thinks I’m dead, Hannibal,” Will retorts. 

“And that is very convenient. No one will come looking for a dead man.”

“She’s probably the only person in the world who gives a damn about me. She doesn’t deserve to live like that, thinking that you killed me after— after everything that happened between the two of you.” Will can’t look at Hannibal as he says this. Alana is one more thread that binds the two of them together, stitched in place as securely and purposefully as the bodies in the mural. Will thinks that if he’d been less broken he could have truly loved her, knows that she did love Hannibal, or at least, she loved the person she had thought Hannibal was. She deserves so much more than the varying hells both of them had dragged her through.

“Would you rather she know the truth? That you came with me, willingly, after you murdered Jack Crawford in cold blood?”

Will bites his lip. He has no idea if the FBI has pinned Jack’s murder on him yet or not. He wasn’t as careful as he could have been, but he has the instincts of so many killers in his mind that covering his tracks came naturally. It would be more logical to place Jack’s death at Hannibal’s feet, but the evidence certainly would not point to a Ripper killing. Will suspects a trip to Tattlecrime.com would answer his questions at least in part, but he isn't sure he wants to know. 

He is sure that he doesn’t want Alana to know. Better for her to think that she was only taken in by one cold-blooded killer than two. Alana could forgive him for a lot, but not that. There’s only one person in the world who would welcome him after what he’s done. Hannibal would only refuse Will forgiveness for Jack’s murder because he would claim there was nothing to forgive.

Hannibal sees Will’s answer and turns back to the meal.

Will closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself.  _ My name is Will Graham. It’s 7:30 and I’m in Italy.  _ He opens them again and watches Hannibal plating the food. Hannibal works with his usual grace and soon enough they are seated for dinner as if it is any other night.

“ _ Boudin noir aux pommes _ ,” Hannibal tells him. He pours them each a glass of deep red wine and smiles at Will.

“Isn’t that blood sausage?” Will asks.

“Indeed.”

Will manages not to roll his eyes.

“Anything I should know?”

Hannibal shakes his head slightly the way one might do at a particularly precocious child.

“When are you going to start trusting me, Will?” he asks.

Will chooses not to answer that question, partly for the satisfaction, but mainly because he doesn’t know himself. He knows that he should never trust Hannibal in the slightest, knows that the moment he does will be the moment he surrenders his life. Then again, isn’t his life already forfeit? Perhaps he’s trusted Hannibal for a long time and is only denying it out of habit. Either way, it seems best to give Hannibal a hard time about his habit of eating people lest he start to think that no one cares.

Will gives Hannibal his best sardonic smile and starts eating.

It is, unsurprisingly, delicious. 

Hannibal talks lightly about his work, reporting his colleagues’ glowing reviews of the dinner party and an interesting artifact that had been delivered that morning as if they should be of the same mild interest to Will. After they’ve finished eating, he brings out a beautiful Pithiviers and gives Will a moment to admire it before serving them both. He pours coffee and leads Will away from the table to more comfortable chairs. 

Hannibal settles into his seat and seems to study Will. Will is used to this by now and ignores it as he eats. He finishes his dessert and sets the plate aside.

“You’re right about Alana,” he says quietly, gazing into his coffee. “She is better off thinking I’m dead.”

“Does that upset you?”

Will considers for a moment. In some respects, yes. It shakes him to his core to think his friend would be happier — healthier, even — believing that her former lover had murdered him than she would be knowing the truth. When he steps outside himself and looks back, he hates the creature he sees sitting across from Hannibal, two dark things masquerading as men. Then again, he’s never felt as awake and whole as he does when he’s with Hannibal. It’s as if the man’s very presence clears the fog from his head, allowing the true shapes of his thoughts to be visible at last. And is it really Hannibal’s fault if those shapes are so twisted? Shouldn’t he just be glad that someone on this earth can find beauty in the monstrosity of his mind?

He remembers the glorious stillness of his thoughts when he’d been kissing Hannibal, how alive and grounded he’d felt. And even before that he remembers time spent in Hannibal’s office, affinities discovered and traps laid, the elaborate games of cat and mouse with no clear victor and, some days, no clear predator. He thinks of the repartee they’d shared, more layered than the pastry he’d just eaten, and how it had occupied his mind like nothing else ever had. He thinks of stolen moments of understanding shared over bodies, glances behind Jack’s back that had conveyed everything, words spoken in front of others that had meant far more than what was said. He shouldn’t count the utter destruction of his world among the best times of his life. 

“It should,” he says at length.

“But does it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Will looks at Hannibal levelly, finally starting to feel calm as things begin to slot into place in his mind.

“You know why,” he says.

“But I want you to tell me.”

“Not my therapist,” he reminds him.

Hannibal smiles faintly, but waits for Will’s response nonetheless. 

“I can never be the kind of man that belongs in her life again,” he says carefully, taking his time to select the right words. “Maybe I never was. But this is the last way I have to protect her. A parting gift.”

“A goodbye?”

“Yes.”

“And what kind of man are you now?”

Will stares into his coffee. His life goes one of two ways now. He can deny what he is, fight his own mind until either it destroys him or Hannibal decides he isn’t worth the effort anymore and kills him. Or he can let himself sink back into that calm, black water; let it close over his head and flood his lungs, cocooning him until he is ready to emerge and truly face what he has become.

He looks up at Hannibal.

“Your kind.”

Hannibal smiles. Their eyes lock and Will feels as if they are physically bound together even though several feet of rich carpeting separates them. Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery, but Will doesn’t want to recover from who he is anymore. He tried that, once, and it nearly killed him. Now, it’s time to embrace who he is, who he’s always been. He wants to go to Hannibal, wants to press their bodies together, wants to fall to his knees at his feet and ask him to lead him into the light of day, into a blood-red sunrise.

Will finds he cannot move. His body is quivering with the potential energy of it all. He’s known for years that one day the darker part of his mind would win and he’d always feared that moment, fighting it tooth and nail day and night. But now that it’s here, it isn’t what he’d expected. It isn’t a surrender; it’s a victory. 

“Hannibal—,” he begins, though he has no idea what is going to come out of his mouth.

Before he can find out, however, they hear the door open and the moment shatters.

“Hello! Where are you?” calls Abigail.

“In here,” Hannibal replies, cool as anything.

Moments later, Abigail appears in the doorway and Will and Hannibal are on their feet.

“We would have gotten you from the station,” Hannibal chides gently.

“It’s fine. I got a cab.”

Abigail hugs them both and then plops down and begins to tell them about her midterms. Will’s mind is reeling at the abrupt switch back to normality and makes an escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting Abigail some of the Pithiviers.

He leans against the counter and takes several long breaths before getting the food. If this is his life now, he supposes, it might as well come with pastry, and he cuts himself another slice. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up, this chapter gets a little gory.

Hannibal, it turns out, has some project from his work that keeps him in the office for most of the weekend, which means that Will gets Abigail pretty much to himself away from the table. They wander the farm with the dogs, talking about the things she’s been learning in school and the museums and galleries in Rome she likes to visit. Will swears up and down that he’ll come visit her sometime and she beams.

“I wish there were a stream here,” she says as they stand watching the dogs chase each other through an overgrown field.

“We could drive to the Arno, but that’s hardly a stream.”

Abigail nods, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand. After a moment, she turns to him.

“Are you glad you came here?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, taking himself by surprise. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

They stand in silence for a while.

“What about Hannibal?”

“What about him?” Will frowns slightly at her.

“Do you think he’s glad he’s here?”

“I think he’s pleased to have a whole new crowd of people to show off in front of and toy with.”

“I meant with us. Do we make him happy?”

Will turns and squints back at the house, just visible on the horizon. He knows it well enough to be able to pick out the widow of Hannibal’s office, just starting to glow in the gathering dusk.

“I think very few things make Hannibal  _ happy _ ,” he says slowly. “We make him content. He certainly seems to like being able to play house with us as it were, but I don’t know that we make him truly happy.”

“You make him happy.”

Will looks over at her quickly, but her gaze is far away.

“What makes you say that?” he asks.

She shrugs.

“Did you two talk much while you were, uh, pretending to be dead?”

It’s not a topic they’ve touched on much, but Will can’t imagine that being trapped in a house with Hannibal was an exceptionally pleasant experience for Abigail.

She shrugs again.

“Some. I mostly stayed upstairs, curtains closed, no moving around when he had someone over, just trying to stay hidden. He was busy a lot of time too, but we usually had breakfast together.” She smiles faintly at this memory. “He talked about you sometimes.”

“Did he?” Will asks, trying not to sound too interested or too strangled.

“Yeah. Towards the end he started talking about coming here. He already had the flat, I think, and he would tell me about it.”

Will chuckles softly. The thought of Hannibal Lecter daydreaming about an idyllic life in Italy was so bizarre it was funny.

“He would say we’d be alright no matter what happened, but I could tell that he really wanted you to come with us. I think—.” She cuts herself off, biting her lip and turning away.

“What?”

Abigail shakes her head, arms wrapping around herself unconsciously. 

“What is it, Abigail?” Will lays a hand gently on her shoulder and feels a bit of tension ease from her.

“I think if things had been different he would have killed us both.” Her voice is so quiet Will can barely hear her.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think he ever planned to make the trip with just me.” She looks around at him and there are tears in her eyes.

Will holds out his arms and buries her face in his shoulder. He holds her close, gently stroking her hair.

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “That’s behind us now. It’s alright.” He rubs her back and presses his face to the top of her head, wishing he could have protected her, wishing he could somehow slip back through time and pluck her from her father’s insanities before they’d bored their way into her mind as they had to his.

“He’s always going to love you more than me,” she says into his shoulder.

Will stiffens at this and holds her away a little, hands on her shoulders so they are eye to eye.

“Hannibal can’t love anyone,” he says firmly. “He’s a psychopath. Don’t waste your time trying to earn something that can’t be given; you’ll only get hurt.”

Abigail shakes her head.

“He loves you,” she protests.

“No. No, he’s fascinated with me, obsessed maybe, but that’s not the same thing.” He searches her face, worry creasing his brow. “That’s not love, Abigail. I don’t want you to think that the way Hannibal treats us is love.” 

“My father loved me,” she says quietly.

Will turns, running a hand through his hair. Trying to teach Abigail Hobbs what a healthy relationship looks like might be a cause long lost. He takes a deep breath and faces her again.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not going to try to tell you that what you’re father felt for you wasn’t love, but he was sick. You can’t use him as a gauge for the world.”

“I know that. I’m not a little kid.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I’m just worried about you. You can understand why, can’t you?”

“People with traumas like ours don’t usually end up in healthy relationships,” she says.

Will swallows at the way she says “ours.”

“No, they don’t.”

She gives him a wry smile.

“I promise I won’t try to date someone like Hannibal,  _ Dad _ ,” she teases.

“Uh-huh,” Will replies, rolling his eyes.

“Because there’s no one like Hannibal,” she adds.

“Yeah, I got that.” He ruffles her hair a little. “Come on, let’s head back. I’m sure your other father will be starting dinner soon.”

❈❈❈

That night, Will lies awake, staring at the ceiling. It’s only now he can’t sleep that he realizes how well he’s been sleeping over the past few weeks. He can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Abigail. There’s a lot he should be worried about, he knows, but he can’t turn thoughts from himself.

_ He’s always going to love you more than me. _

No, no. What’d he told her was true. Hannibal didn’t love him because he couldn’t love him. Aside from that, Will shouldn’t care one way or the other. His only concern about Hannibal’s emotions should be how likely the man was to kill him in any given moment. Hannibal was a monster. The things he’d done to Will alone…

And yet, Will  _ is _ glad he’s here. He cannot deny that. Despite everything that had led him down this path, from shooting Garret Jacob Hobbs to murdering Jack Crawford, he can’t truthfully say that he would change anything — well, he could have done without the encephalitis, but if he hadn’t gone to the hospital under Chilton’s care, he suspects he’d be a very different man today. And if he hadn’t been declared insane, if he’d been able to think and remember, Hannibal wouldn’t have been able to frame him. Jack would have had to listen to him. Hannibal would be in that hospital — or somewhere far worse.

No, he wouldn’t change it.

❈❈❈

Will had driven to the next town over to try to find a part to fix one of his boat motors. He still isn’t sure where Hannibal procures the things from, but he keeps showing up with them and so Will keeps fixing them. The store owner does not seem to understand what Will is talking about no matter how carefully Will sketches the part he needs on the back of the man’s business card. He’s about to give up when another customer enters the store.

The owner gestures the newcomer over and points to Will, saying simply, “ _ Americano _ .”

“Oh,” says the stranger, a young man, probably still in his twenties, with unremarkable features and a bright smile. “What’s going on?”

“Hi, sorry. I’m just trying to see if he knows where I can get this part?” Will shows him the drawing and explains what it is.

The young man relays the information in what sounds like somewhat stilted Italian and the store owner’s face brightens at once. He heads into the back and returns a few minutes later with the exact part Will needs. Will pays and thanks both men, thinking to himself that the store owner had clearly understood his drawing and had just been an ass on purpose.

He’s about to get into his truck and head back to the farm when the young man comes out of the store.

“Hey, sorry, but you look awfully familiar.”

Will freezes, but the man just smiles back.

“I don’t think so,” he manages. 

“I’m terrible at faces, but I’m pretty sure we’ve met. Gimme a minute; it’ll come to me.” 

The young man stares intensely at Will. Will doesn’t recognize him, but even if this stranger just knows his face from the news, he could mean serious trouble.

“I got it!” the man says, snapping his fingers. “I took a class from you at Quantico before I dropped out. I knew I’d remember! You probably don’t remember me, though. Forest Avery?”

Will stares at him with no idea of what to say, slowly shaking his head.

“Uh, uh, Graham! Right?”

The guy — Forest — is still smiling at him.

“Yeah,” Will says numbly.

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! Isn’t it great here? I live here. Just packed up and moved. Here.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a stubby pencil and a crumpled piece of paper. He applies the one to the other and then hands the paper to Will. “Feel free to call me. Or just drop by. We could do dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Great!”

He smiles and walks away, pausing to turn back and wave. Will waves in return. He watches the young man until he is out of sight and then gets in the truck. He looks at the paper in his hand, looks at his tool box in the truck bed, and starts the engine.

❈❈❈

The address isn’t hard to find. He drives by it on his way out of town. It isn’t much to look at: a small, quiet house in a small, quiet neighborhood. He barely slows as he drives by, but with so many killers watching from behind his eyes, it only takes Will moments to case the house.

He drives a few miles back towards the farm before he pulls off the highway to think. The dogs should be alright for several more hours. It’s a weekday and Hannibal usually lets him know if he’s going to drive out during the week. He has everything he needs, not that it takes much by way of supplies to snuff out a life, but clean-up could be an issue. It would be better to follow the man, learn his patterns, catch him outside of town somewhere so he’ll just have left his house and never come back. But if he waits… Even now, the man could be telling someone back in the States that he’d run into a former teacher from Quantico.

No, waiting is too risky. And anyway, it isn’t like Francis Fell had any connection to the man. Will Graham is missing-presumed-dead and Hannibal was right: no one comes looking for dead men.

❈❈❈

Will can see it all from other end. It's a strange sensation, standing at the door to a crime scene and imagining its future instead of its past. He doesn't let the pendulum swing, but he still knows what it will be like when his work is discovered.

Will knocks on the door and Forest opens it, slight puzzlement shifting to a smile at once when he sees Will.

"Mr. Graham! I didn't think I'd see you so soon."

"Will. Please."

"Okay. Well, come on in, Will."

He stands aside, holding the door open. 

"Thank you."

_ No sign of forced entry. Victim most likely knew his killer. _

Forest leads Will to his small kitchen. Once, Will would have thought nothing of it outside of what it might say about its owner. Now, however, he feels a twinge of disgust at the mess that greets him. No point in guessing whose fault that is. 

"Can I get you something to drink?"

_ Two glasses, victim definitely knew the perp. Bag it for forensics and if they get any prints, send them to Interpol. Vic was American so he friend might be too. _

"No. Thank you."

"Okay." Forest leans against the counter (chipped Formica, hard to clean) and smiles at Will. "So what brings you by?"

Will shrugs, causally folding his arms and trying to look relaxed.

_ Prints all over the countertop. Probably the victim's.  _

"Just interested to have run into you. What brought you to Italy?"

"Well, after it became abundantly clear that I wasn't cut out for the FBI, I left before they could kick me out. I bummed around for a few years, odd jobs and that kinda stuff. But then my mom died and suddenly I had this money and no family so then I was just like, fuck it, if you'll excuse my language, and moved here."

"You have family here? Friends?"

"Nope. Never even been to Italy before.”

_ Vic doesn’t seem to have any local connections. Damn tourists. _

"Wow. And you what? Rented this place when you got here?"

"Naw, I've been traveling around a lot, just living off my mom’s money, you know?”

_ No job, no social calendar. No wonder it took so long for someone to call it in. _

Will nods. If it weren't for the conditions of the house, this idiot would be making it too easy for him.

"What about you? It's not exactly summer break."

"No," Will agrees. "I don't teach anymore, but I'm sure you heard all about that."

Forest frowns and shakes his head. 

"Something happen?"

For a moment, Will thinks about backtracking. This kid doesn't know about Hannibal or any of it. Maybe it could be okay. He dismisses the thought almost at once. Even if by some miracle Forest didn’t drop anything online or to anyone he might know, it’s too late now.

“Will?”

Will gives his head a little shake.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I just asked if something happened?”

Will considers for a moment. No point in terrorizing the kid. Might as well keep his heart rate down if he can. Every little bit helps.

“I got real sick,” he says.

“I’m sorry; what happened?”

“Encephalitis. But I got better.”

Forest frowns.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“My brain was on fire,” Will says lightly.

The kid’s eyes go huge.

“I’m fine now,” Will assures him. “It was just an infection.”

“Right.”

Forest is starting to look nervous. 

Better get on with it.

Will glances around the kitchen and spots a blender, crusted with something old and pink, sitting on the counter. He also spots a box of tissues that, miraculously, isn’t empty.

“So what’s your favorite thing about living here?” Will asks. “And don’t say the food because that’s mine.” He casually crosses the room and grabs a tissue. “Allergies,” he says, sniffing and wiping his nose.

“Well, if I can’t pick gelato, then it’s definitely the architecture — and the number of businessmen riding vespas.”

“With their ties flapping out behind them? I love those guys.” Will gives his best disarming smile. 

“You sure I can’t get you anything to drink?”

“Well,” he pretends to consider for a moment. “If you had a cold beer…”

“Sure thing!”

Forest turns and goes for the fridge. 

Will turns and goes for the blender, grabbing the handle with the tissue. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll do the trick.

❈❈❈

Will leaves him unconscious on the kitchen floor. His head isn’t bleeding (thank you, blunt force trauma) so he should be alright for a minute or two. Will goes back to his truck, careful not to touch the door with anything but the tissue. He grabs his tool box and returns inside. He finds the bathroom and breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the bathtub. He puts on a pair of medical gloves he keeps around in case one the dogs needs emergency attention and drags Forest towards the bathroom.

Undressing an unconscious person is neither easy nor enjoyable, but Will manages it and leaves him naked and unconscious in the hall outside the bathroom for a minute while he takes the clothes to the bedroom. Shoes on the floor, clothes in the overflowing hamper. Swing by the kitchen for paper towels and the handful of other cleaning products the kid owns.

He hoists the body into the tub and looks down at it. 

Killing Randall Tier had made him feel strong, had been exhilarating, thrilling. This man is weak, powerless to defend himself. It isn’t a murder, only an execution. Will finds he doesn’t really want to do it, but not because he knows it’s wrong (he does) or because he’s afraid he’ll get caught (he isn’t really), but more in the way one doesn’t want to do laundry. It’s a dull, time-consuming chore. But it has to be done.

To keep his family safe.

His family?

Yes.

Will opens the toolbox, putting that thought aside to examine later, and pulls out a knife and the dust mask he uses sometimes when he’s working on the farm. He puts on the mask and checks that the knife is sharp. It is. He rolls Forest onto his side, facing away from the door and the rest of the bathroom, in an effort to contain the arterial spray. He grips the hair tightly and, quickly and neatly as he can, slits the throat from carotid artery to jugular vein. He drops the knife into the tub, quickly scrambling to hold the body still as it twitches and lurches, semi-conscious and fighting for life. It goes still again quickly and Will watches as the blood flow becomes weaker and weaker. It’s less than a minute before it stops almost entirely and he’s left with a body already wreaking of blood and piss and shit.

Will sighs. The human body is a disgusting sort of miracle. 

He does his best to transfer what belongs in the toilet to it using the paper towels and flushes it several times. No point risking clogging the bathtub. Even through the mask, it’s foul. 

With that done, he rolls the body onto its back and takes the knife up again. He splits open both thighs along the femoral artery and vein and slices up both forearms from wrist to elbow. He turns on the water and heads back to the kitchen to look for trash bags and wax paper. 

He finds trash bags under the sink. He’s surprised at how full the box is, but supposes that’s what happens when you never take out your garbage. He might have to triple-bag, but it’ll do. As for wax paper, the best he can find cling wrap, but it will do as well.

Back in the bathroom, he turns off the water, pokes at the body with the plunger, trying to cox more of the blood out, and then drains the tub. He repeats this several times, which is boring and fogs up his glasses, until he’s satisfied that most of the blood has gone. Now for the really gross part.

He prepares several triple-layered bags and then gets out his hammer. First, however, he slices open the body cavity in an “I” shape, one cut from shoulder to shoulder, another from hip to hip, and a long line connecting them. It smells horrible. He tries to imagine Hannibal in his time as a surgeon, dealing with this kind of stench day in and day out. At least now it’s less regular.

Cracking open the ribcage takes longer than Will had hoped, but it’s also more satisfying than he’d expected. Once the ribs are out of the way, he starts transferring the contents of the body cavity into the bags. It’s awful and Will has to turn away, retching, several times. It isn’t the death or the fact that this is all he is, all anyone is, just a pile of foul-smelling goop and bones; it’s the oder and the feeling, pure and simple. Will’s arms and chest are coated in blood and viscera now, but eventually, he gets the broken ribs and the organs into bags.

He fills and drains the tub a few more times, not that it matters much now, but he needs a break and it does help with the smell, though only marginally. He sits on the bathroom floor, feeling god-only-knows-what soaking into the back of his pants. He’d liked these jeans.

With the body a little cleaner, Will sets to work again. He gets out his hand saw, wishing he had something stronger, and considers the body. Top to bottom or bottom to top? He’s always been an “ears first” kind of guy when it comes to chocolate rabbits so he decides on top to bottom. He grabs the hammer again and smashes out the teeth. It reminds him of the nightmares he used to have about his teeth falling out back in high school and college before his mind had become so overrun with killers that a dream like that would seem like a vacation. He gets the facial bones while he’s at it and then saws through the neck. The head, he decides, gets its own bag. He plops it in and ties it off, shoving it over towards the door. 

Getting the arms off proves trickier than the head, but between the saw and the hammer, he manages it. He slices off the pad of each fingertip and flushes them away. He isn’t sure how necessary this is, but it seems best to be thorough. The arms go in a bag together and Will takes another break, running the water again, more out of habit than anything else.

Next, he cuts through the torso just above the pelvis. The spine is heartier here than it was in the neck and Will gets frustrated and just goes at it with the hammer, cracking the tub in the process. But he gets the torso free and into a bag.

He stares down at the legs. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to cut through the thigh bones with just his handsaw, but that’s easy enough to work around. He takes the hammer to the knees and shatters them, doing more damage to the tub, but, in the end, is able to saw off the lower legs. He bags these together and just manages to wedge the upper legs and pelvis into another bag. 

By this time, it’s nearly full dark outside. The smell in the bathroom is overwhelmingly putrid and he’s covered in blood and viscera and shards of bone. He peels off his clothes and shoves them into one of the few remaining bags and sets it apart from the others. These he will burn. He takes a quick shower, bits of bone poking into the bottoms of his feet, and washes himself as clean as he can manage. He goes back to the bedroom and finds some clothes that fit him well enough to be functional. Then it’s time to start hauling bags.

Will knows it’s risky, tossing the bags into the back of his truck on the street outside the house where anyone could see him, but he’s sure he can get Hannibal to find him new plates. And, if anyone asks, he’s simply helping an old friend clear out his cluttered house. But no one asks and Will finishes the task without trouble.

Back inside, he does his best to clean up the remaining mess. Without luminol, he has no way of being sure he’s gotten all the blood, but he spends a long time with the spray cleaner and uses all the paper towels and sponges he can find, as well as a few of Forest’s rattier t-shirts. There’s nothing to be done about the cracks in the tub, but it’s a shitty house anyway. He pours a three-quarters-empty jar of bleach down the bathtub drain and stands back. Without a forensics unit, you wouldn’t know it was a crime scene.

_ Killer clearly had some idea of what he was doing. Looks like forensic countermeasures. Repeat offender, maybe, or could be ex-law enforcement. Or just a damn lucky son-of-a-bitch. _

Will does a last sweep of the house before he leaves. He stops in the bedroom one and grabs Forest’s wallet. On an impulse, he takes out the driver’s license (Utah, expired) and pockets it. He turns on a few lights so the house won’t be immediately spotted as deserted, empties the freezer into a few plastic shopping bags to fend of decay, and goes. He drives out of town towards the farm, does a wide loop around and heads the other way. He makes a lot of random turns and, eventually, pulls over on the side of a side road.

He gets out of the truck and goes to the back. He grabs one of the bags and a flashlight and heads into the little wooded area he’s found. The one thing he doesn’t have is a shovel. However, his flashlight beam shows him signs of foxes and maybe even wolves so he doubts any meat left here will last long. He follows an animal path for a little ways and then rips open the bag, letting the arms plop out onto the ground. He kicks some dirt and leaves over them and hopes for the best.

He returns to the truck and continues his wanderings around the Italian countryside. He does this until dawn when he’s finally down to just the bag with his clothes in it and one packed with ice. Exhausted, he manages to find his way back to the farm where he lets the dogs out, puts food down for them, stops by the refrigerator, and crashes into bed.

❈❈❈

Will spends most of the next day in a groggy haze of exhaustion. He’d expected the wall of empathy to break over him, smashing against his delicate psyche, but he feels… nothing. Just tired. The dogs don’t seem to think there’s anything wrong and that’s good enough for Will. They follow him outside to burn his clothes and shoes from the night before and seem to enjoy chasing the sparks. He’s starting to feel human again when the phone rings.

“Coming out tonight?” he asks without preamble. The only people who have the farm’s number are Hannibal and Abigail and Abigail almost never calls.

“I thought I might make you dinner.”

Will smiles to himself.

“That’d be great. I picked up something last night that I’m sure you’re much better suited to cook than I am.”

“Excellent. I shall see you in an hour and a half.”


	7. Chapter 7

Will is waiting for Hannibal in the kitchen when he arrives. 

“You look pale,” Hannibal says crispy.

“Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

Hannibal nods, apparently accepting this answer. He sets down the bag of groceries he’s holding and goes to wash his hands.

“Well,” he says when he’s finished. “You said you had something for me?” There is a strange note of anticipation in his voice.

Will goes to the fridge and takes out several cling-wrapped packages. He puts them on the kitchen island and slides them wordlessly towards Hannibal. 

Hannibal smiles.

“What is this?” he asks.

Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out Forest Avery’s driver’s license and sets it on top of the meat.

Hannibal slowly extends a hand and picks up the little card. He examines it carefully before raising his eyes to Will.

“What changed your mind?” he asks.

“What makes you think I've changed my mind?” Will looks at him levelly. He isn’t sure when meeting Hannibal’s eyes became so easy. 

“We both know that there are  _ key differences _ between you and I.”

Will rolls his eyes and takes the license back, pocketing it again.

“He was a threat.”

“Ah.”

“He recognized me from Quantico,” Will says shortly. “Do you want it or not?”

Hannibal pulls the meats across the island and begins to unwrap it.

“Cut?” he asks, though Will suspects me can tell just by looking.

“Shank, I suppose.”

Hannibal nods and Will can practically see him flicking through his mental recipe box. After a moment, he begins pulling things out of the grocery bag and moving around the kitchen, preparing his indigents. 

“So it was a murder of necessity, nothing else?” he asks lightly.

“Yes.”

“And yet you took a trophy.” He glances towards Will’s pocket.

“Information.”

Hannibal shrugs elegantly, a silent "have it your way,” which Will ignores.

“Would you like to assist?” Hannibal asks after a few minutes of silence. “Or would you prefer to watch me work with what you’ve brought me?”

Will leans back against the counter and folds his arms. It’s rare that Hannibal offers him something like this. Certainly, he’s spent countless hours observing the man, but it's always felt somewhat surreptitious or it’s been in moments when Hannibal is performing for an audience. But this time Hannibal’s actions are offered freely and just for him.

The golden light of sunset streams in through the large windows and glints off of the stainless steel countertops and knives. And off the two white lines on Hannibal's inner arms, twitching as he works. Will's gaze is drawn to the scars. He might not have been the one to break Hannibal's skin, but the marks are still  _ his _ .

Hannibal glances up from chopping an onion just in time to catch Will watching the shift and pull of his skin around the scars. Will doesn't pretend he wasn't looking. Not anymore. 

"You like that they scarred so clearly," he obverses and suddenly Will feels that they are back in Hannibal’s office in Baltimore.

“Yes,” he says.

"How does it make you feel to see them?"

Will considers the scars and Hannibal steps over to him, offering one wrist for closer inspection. Will takes Hannibal's arm in both his hands and runs his fingertips gently over the line there. It feels obscenely intimate, touching him like this, tracing the mark that sealed in Hannibal's life when he'd tried to take it away. 

"Strong," Will says at last. "And safe. It proves you can't get rid of me. We're bonded."

Hannibal nods. 

"You told me once that it would make you feel righteous to kill me. Is that still true?"

"No."

"How would you have felt if Mr. Brown had been successful in his attempt to carry out your wishes?"

“Powerful."

"And how did you feel instead?”

Will looks up at Hannibal, letting their eyes meet. He feels Hannibal’s hand move in his and his fingers close around Will’s. Not a holding of hands, but a restraining.

“Disappointed,” Will says. “Angry. Bitter.”

“Afraid?”

“No.”

“What else?”

Will looks down at their hands and takes control back, turning Hannibal’s arm so he can see the scar again.

“Relieved.”

Hannibal nods. 

It’s the first time Will has admitted this, even to himself, but he knows it’s true. Killing Hannibal would have been tantamount to suicide and, while Will may not have held much value to his life during his days in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he, like many others who survived their attempts, is glad he had failed. Will looks up at him, not completely, just enough to get a read on his stoic face. There’s something in his eyes that Will can’t place.

“How does it make you feel?” he asks. “To have my marks on you?”

“You were not the one to hold the blade.”

“And yet you would never consider them to be anyone else’s.”

“No.”

“So, how does it make you feel, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal smirks a little at that and brings his other hand to rest lightly on Will’s.

“Loved,” he says simply.

Hannibal holds his gaze for a moment and then abruptly breaks away, returning to his cooking as if he’d only paused to ask Will some throw-away question about his day. Will watches him work. It’s like watching an artist, a dancer, everything calculated and graceful, no movement without purpose or elegance. 

_ Loved. _

Will turns the word over in his mind like a puzzle box, seeking a hidden mechanism that will lay bare its inner meaning. He doesn’t see what advantage this gives Hannibal. It’s a little late for him to be trying to throw Will off-balance with such a comment. However, the alternative is that he means it. Whether or not Hannibal is truly capable of love, it certainly seems that he views his  _ obsession _ with Will as something akin to it. Hell, maybe Hannibal even believes he can and does love him. 

It’s moments like this when Will really wants to kill him. 

Well.

Not kill him. But at least make him bleed again.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Will blinks. It’s such an un-Hannibal-like thing for him to say that it sends whatever thoughts Will was having running for the hills in confusion. Hannibal is merely smirking at him.

“That’s a little cheap, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Dinner then.”

Will rolls his eyes.

“You were making me dinner anyway,” he points out.

Hannibal chooses to ignore that comment and goes back to his cooking.

❈❈❈

They are quiet over dinner. Hannibal’s usual focus on his meal is turned towards Will, who is determinedly keeping any expression from his face. He’ll be damned if he reacts to this now. Yes, he is perfectly aware of what he’s eating, but it’s hardly the worst thing he’s done in the past twenty-four hours. This is just another item on the long list of things that should bother him but don’t. And it is, of course, delicious. 

After dinner, Will takes over the kitchen and does the dishes. This has become their pattern after one night when Will had gotten frustrated at being treated like a child and told Hannibal flat out that he was going to do the dishes. Hannibal hadn’t argued the point, but it had become his habit to watch Will at the sink. At first, Will had felt that Hannibal was waiting for him to do something wrong, but now he thinks that the man simply likes watching Will clean up after him.

Will finishes the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Are you staying the night?” he asks.

“Do you want me to?”

Hannibal has never asked him this before. Usually, he answers the question with a simple “yes” or “no” and maybe some explanation based on his schedule for the following morning. 

Will frowns slightly, but then just shrugs and starts to turn away.

“No, Will,” Hannibal says, stopping Will’s turn with a hand on his arm. “Answer me.”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you do,” Will says.

“Then why ask?”

“You said this place would be my sanctuary. Mine. I think I have a right to know what goes on in it.”

“Then you have a right to tell me to stay or to go.”

“Do whatever you want.”

Will tries to leave again. Hannibal is clearly in one of his moods and Will has no patience for that tonight. He’s still exhausted from his little adventure the night before and the wine at dinner has gone straight to his head. He can’t take any extra crap from Hannibal. He just wants to go to bed with the knowledge of whether or not he’ll be making his own coffee in the morning.

But he doesn’t make it a full step before Hannibal’s hand is on his arm again, firmer this time.

“What,” Will snaps.

“Do you want me to stay?” Hannibal articulates each word slowly and clearly as if Will might have failed to understand him the first time. There is danger in his tone as well, which, somehow, just annoys Will more.

“Hannibal,” Will says, glaring at the man in question and jerking his arm free. “I. Don’t. Care.”

“Then I shall go.”

“Fine.”

However, Hannibal doesn’t go. He stands there, staring at Will, eyes boring into him. It’s unnerving, that stare, even if Will has been on the receiving end of it more times that he could easily count. Once, it had made his skin crawl; now it just makes him mad.

“Aren’t you going?” he demands.

“So you do want me to go?”

Will wishes he’d trained at least one of the dogs to attack on command. 

“Do you want me to want you to go?” he shoots back instead.

Hannibal smiles almost imperceptibly. Will hates how much it seems to please the asshole when he frazzles him like this. He forces himself to take a breath. He’s not going to snap over nothing just because Hannibal likes winding him up.

“I’m tired,” he says, holding tight to his composure. “I’m going to take the dogs out and then I’m going to bed. You do whatever you want.” And he turns and walks away.

Will determinedly doesn’t think about Hannibal as he stands in front of the house, watching the dogs wander the yard or as he climbs into bed. He certainly doesn’t listen for the sounds of Hannibal’s car pulling away. And when he finally falls asleep, it definitely is not with that one word still dancing around and around his head.

_ Loved. _

Will wakes to the smell of coffee, but Hannibal has already gone.

❈❈❈

On Friday, Will realizes too late that he is waiting for Hannibal. He hadn’t meant to plan his day around Hannibal’s arrival and yet he finds himself sitting on the front steps about ten minutes before Hannibal usually pulls up to the house. He’d thought he was just watching the dogs romp, but he knows that’s an excuse. He is very clearly waiting for Hannibal.

And Hannibal is late.

He’s only about twenty minutes late, but, for a man who usually runs like clockwork, that is a noticeable period. Will is annoyed to find he’s starting to worry when he finally hears the car. He stands up and calls the dogs to him. They mostly know better than to jump on Hannibal now, but stupid little Buster just can’t control himself sometimes. Winston sits cooly at Will’s side, his bright, solemn eyes on the driveway. At least someone’s still on his team. 

Will watches the car pull into its usual place and then watches Hannibal get out, which takes slightly longer than Will knows it ought it. Something twists deep in his stomach. Is Hannibal hurt? 

_ Damnit, I should be glad if he is _ , he tells himself sternly.

But Hannibal is not injured. He is hampered by a wriggling ball of fluff that he has clamped tightly in his arms. Hannibal is in his shirtsleeves, again unusual, and looks faintly exasperated as he stands beside the car waiting for Will.

Will enjoys watching this for a moment before going to Hannibal.

“A gift,” Hannibal says as Will reaches him.

He awkwardly transfers the pup into Will’s arms. The little thing is all soot-gray fluff, though somewhat sodden, and writhes in Will’s grasp. Will takes a moment to inspect the creature for any obvious wounds before kneeling down and letting the other dogs sniff at him. He stills against Will’s chest, but, after a moment, he receives a gentle lick from Molly, and Will feels it’s safe to set him down.

“I thought you might call him Dante,” Hannibal says. 

Will watches the pack greeting the pup, but all seems well so he turns his attention to Hannibal.

“Where did you get him?”

“He needed a home,” Hannibal says, turning back to the car to retrieve his things.

“Hannibal,” Will snaps harshly enough to bring the man’s attention back to him.

“Yes?”

“Where did you get him? And why is he damp?” he adds, frowning as the little dog shakes himself violently.

If Will hadn't been so angry he would have laughed at how close to sheepish Hannibal suddenly looks. 

“I had to wash him.”

Will can't entirely smoother his snort of laughter at that mental image, but forces himself to regain his composure.

“And why did you have to wash him?”

In answer to that question, Hannibal turns back to the car and pulls out a cooler, which he opens and holds out to Will.

Will peers inside and sees a small collection of packages wrapped in twine and butcher’s paper. 

“Oh for god's sake, Hannibal.” Will turns away in disgust. Not at what he knows lies inside those neat little packages but at the man's insistently risky behavior. “Do you want to get us all arrested?”

“Of course not.”

“Then this has to stop.” Will folds his arms and glares at Hannibal. It isn’t about morality anymore. It hasn’t been about that in a long time. It’s about their lives; it’s about Abigail’s safety; it’s about the home they’ve managed to create here.

“Will,” says Hannibal in a tone one might use to explain something to an over-excited child. “I know what I am doing. It took you almost five years to catch me and I know for a fact that the  _ polizia _ do not have your kind of talent.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because no one has your kind of talent.”

Will narrows his eyes, trying not to feel flattered. It's true, of course; the truth of that statement was his damnation for years. But it sounds like flattery when Hannibal says it. And flattery isn’t going to soothe Will’s mood.

“Come inside,” he says. “I need to start dinner.”

“Is Abigail coming?”

“Yes.”

“I don't want you feeding her that.”

Hannibal stops and looks at Will, hard.

“She lived with me for months.”

“I know. But I'm still her guardian.”

“She's nineteen. You can hardly dictate her life, Will.”

“And yet you do it so well," he shoots back. 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows slightly. 

“Don't be petulant.”

“I'm not being petulant. I'm trying to protect her. Like you said you would. Like  _ we _ said we would.”

Hannibal stares off at the horizon, eyes settled on a spot just beyond Will. 

“Do you see this as a danger to her?” he asks, tone balanced yet interested like he isn't quite sure of the right answer himself.

“Her supposed father feeding her his victims?  _ Again _ ?” Will punches the last word and turns away from Hannibal on the pretense of giving his attention to Dante. "I thought I was supposed to be the one who's too much like her father," he mutters, more to himself than to Hannibal. 

Behind him, Hannibal stiffens and Will can sense his sudden tension in the silence between them. 

Will doesn't turn back, but his muscles coil for action, ready for the impending fight. 

“Very well,” Hannibal says and Will lets out a shocked breath. “For her.”

Will brings his eyes back to Hannibal slowly, trying to catch him in a lie, but finds none there. 

“Thank you,” he says, measured and careful, not yet trusting the footing of the situation. 

Hannibal simply nods and begins bringing groceries into the house. 

❈❈❈

Will watches him like a hawk, but Hannibal makes no attempt to break his word. When Abigail arrives, she is delighted by Dante, but Will can see in her eyes that she doesn't quite believe Hannibal when he tells her that he found the pup on the side of the road like Will had found so many of his strays. However, she doesn't press the issue. 

They dine on what Hannibal claims is a salad, though there's so much in it apart from the standard greens that Will isn't entirely sure it qualifies. 

After several bites, Abigail looks up at Hannibal, a slight frown creasing her face. 

“There's no meat in this,” she says. 

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “Does it bother you?”

“No. It's just not your usual style.”

“It's always good to try new things,” Will says.

“Indeed,” Hannibal agrees. “Tell us, Abigail, what new things have you been trying in Rome?”

Abigail tells them about her classes and the papers she's writing. She smiles cautiously as she talks about her new friends, her casual words belying nervousness that Will picks out in brief moments of hesitation. Will is pleased to hear that she has a social life and he thinks that Hannibal's smile might just be genuine. 

“I'm not sure what I want to major in,” she confesses over dessert. “I thought maybe journalism, but I don't really want to do anything related to…" Her voice trails off and she makes a vague gesture with her hand, which Will imagines is meant to encompass all the things between them that might be of interest to the FBI. “Maybe I should just study Italian. If we're going to be staying here?”

She looks towards Hannibal with an uncertain hope in her face. Will follows her gaze, but Hannibal just smiles gently and doesn't answer. 

Will appreciates that he doesn't try to lie to her. 

❈❈❈

Abigail has an early class on Fridays and so she bids them good-night before Will or Hannibal are ready for sleep.

They sit quietly in the living room, the dogs piled in sleepy lumps around them. Will has Dante in his lap and is gently brushing out the pup's fur. The little guy can't be more than six months old, he thinks, and is in a deep puppy sleep, oblivious to Will's care. 

“I think we need to talk.”

“Do you?” Will asks dryly. 

“Yes.”

“About what?” Will looks up at Hannibal, eyes narrowed. “Abigail?”

“No. About you.” 

Will rolls his eyes and pointedly turns away from Hannibal. 

"I think it would be best if you simply told me what you wanted,” Hannibal says coolly. “Or at least admitted it to yourself.”

“Still not my therapist," Will gripes. 

"Indeed not." Hannibal gives him a long, critical look. "What am I to you, I wonder?”

Will swallows. It's a question he's been trying very hard not to ask himself.

“As I thought,” Hannibal says.

Will steals a glance at him. He’s leaning back in his seat, fingers steepled in front of him, looking the textbook image of a psychiatrist. Will sighs heavily. He’s tired. He took the dogs on a long walk around the farm and spent several hours working a couple of twisted, dead stumps out of the ground behind the house. His body is ready for sleep and his mind is perfectly happy to keep ignoring the whole Hannibal situation as best it can.

“What do you want?” he asks at length.

“I want you to be honest with yourself — and with me. If you admit what it is that you want, you might actually end up getting it.”

“I don’t know what I want.” Will means to snap at Hannibal, but his voice comes out rough and tired, frustration and exhaustion making it hard to think.

“Yes, you do,” says Hannibal patiently. “Close your eyes and think about what in your life makes you happy.”

Will does as he’s told; it’s easier that way. He sees the farm, sees the dogs running free and happy. He sees Abigail’s smiling face, sees her relaxed and content for the first time since the day he found her bleeding out in her father’s kitchen. And he sees Hannibal. Sees his black car pulling up to the house; sees him standing in the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up, concentration pulling gently at his face. He sees the slight twist of Hannibal’s mouth when he gives Will that quiet, private smile. He sees Hannibal’s hand on his own. Sees his fingers clamped around Hannibal’s wrist as he presses him against the bookcase in the flat.

He opens his eyes and sees Hannibal watching him placidly.

“What did you see?”

“The farm. The dogs.”

“What else?”

“Abigail. Actually happy.”

“It is a wonderful thing,” Hannibal agrees. “What else?”

Will doesn’t want to tell him what else, but he has no reason not to. What’s the worst Hannibal could do to him that he hasn't already considered?

“You,” Will says simply.

Hannibal nods.

“So tell me what you want.”

_ You, pressed against the wall, blood on your face and murder in your eyes, begging me for mercy that I will never, ever give you _ .  _ You, bleeding at my feet. You, hot and sweaty against me. You, understanding me like no one else ever has and letting me understand you in return. _

“I  _ want _ to go to bed, Hannibal. And to not deal with your shit.”

“You’re the one who’s being obstinate,” he says lightly.

Will clenches his teeth and gets to his feet, Dante held in his arms, a fluffy shield.

“Good-night,” he grits out.

“Good-night, Will. I hope you’ll be ready to come to me with the truth soon.”

Will wants to punch him, but, fortunately for the man in question, Will likes dogs more than he hates Hannibal.


	8. Chapter 8

Will is trying to decide what breed Dante might be when Hannibal gets back from taking Abigail to the train station. He looks a bit like a gray schipperke, but he’s clearly still a puppy and his paws are far too big for his body. Will wonders how big he’s going to get and fears the answer is “very” and that he might be some kind of newfoundland mix.

Whatever he is, Dante takes off towards Hannibal the moment he’s out of the car. Will can’t help but smile at the rather long-suffering way Hannibal bends to scratch his head. Will tries to call him back, but the little thing clearly hasn’t learned his manners yet. He bounds along after Hannibal and Will leads the way into the house. 

Hannibal stops the moment he’s through the door and Will turns to find him frowning.

“What?” he asks, bracing himself for some kind of strange bullshit.

“What are you making?” Hannibal asks slowly, nose wrinkled.

“Dog food,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t like feeding them stuff when I don’t know what’s in it and I can’t read the labels here.”

“Please tell me that you aren’t using the good pots.”

“There are good pots?”

Will says it just to watch Hannibal’s face go utterly still for a moment before he strides off towards the kitchen, tension in his movements. Will isn’t using the good pots — not that they have bad pots, but he knows which ones are Hannibal’s favorites. Still, it brings him some small amount of pleasure to know that he can exercise at least a moment of control over Hannibal.

“I think Dante might grow up to be something pretty big,” he calls as he follows Hannibal at a more leisurely pace.

Hannibal doesn’t respond and Will catches up with him in the kitchen where he has ascertained that Will isn’t destroying anything. Will joins Hannibal by the stove and, on an impulse, nudges him out of the way with his hip so that he can stir the pot a little. Hannibal obligingly moves and, by the time Will has decided that the dog food is done cooking and has turned off the heat, is standing with a glass of wine. Hannibal leans slightly against the counter, looking at Will with a calculating sort of expression that puts Will on edge.

“I was thinking I might take Abigail out the next weekend she isn’t too busy with school work,” he says casual.

Will stiffens. Of course, that could mean anything, but he knows it doesn’t. He knows it means one very specific thing.

“No,” he says sharply.

“No?” Hannibal echoes, eyebrows slightly raised.

“No,” Will repeats, folding his arms and glaring at Hannibal. “We brought her here so she could have a life, Hannibal.”

“Did  _ we _ ?” he says, the stress on the second word making it perfectly clear that Hannibal considers himself to be the sole orchestrator of their lives.

“Yes,” Will says, not rising to Hannibal’s bate. “She might legally be an adult, but she still needs looking after.”

“And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

“No,” Will says hotly, his tempter starting to get the better of him. “You  _ intend _ to make her like you.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, his tone slightly hurt, “You want her to survive, don’t you?”

Will clenches his jaw against angry words that he knows will get him nowhere good. He forces himself to take and let out a deep breath.

“Hannibal,” he says, brutally forcing calm into his tone, “I can’t let you do that to her.”

“It’s already begun.”

“And now she has a chance to start over! That was the point of all this, wasn’t it?” Will waves a hand vaguely at the farm and the life they’ve built around it.

Hannibal smiles at him like he’s a petulant child.

“We cannot change who we are.”

“Then why the sudden interest in an accomplice? You work alone.”

“I’m a doctor, Will, and a psychiatrist. It’s part of who I am to help others fully realize themselves.”

“Bullshit.”

Hannibal shakes his head slightly.

“Such language.”

Will finds he’s clenching his fists so hard that his arms are trembling. He hates the way Hannibal dances around him, dodging his every desperate lunge. It’s like the man is dangling his own damn sanity just out of his reach, jerking it away every time Will tries to grab for it.

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine and then sets the glass down.

“Will,” he says, his voice full of weary patience. “We cannot keep going in circles like this; it’s childish. I need you to accept your situation and that you chose to be in it.”

“Not going to just drug me into submission?” Will asks bitterly. “I hear fragile minds can be especially susceptible to hallucinations.”

“I could,” Hannibal agrees. “But it wouldn’t be what’s best for you.”

It’s this that Will cannot take.

“When you have ever wanted what’s best for me?” he demands.

Hannibal gives him a politely puzzled look.

“When have I not acted in your best interest?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Will retorts, sarcasm dripping from his words like blood. “Maybe when you framed me for your murders? Or when you let me think I actually committed those murders? Oh! Maybe go back to the beginning when you stopped me for getting treating for my fucking encephalitis?” He’s shouting now, but he doesn’t care. “Or wait, what about when you sent a man to kill me? Do you need me to go on?”

Hannibal is smiling gently and shaking his head and Will wants to knock his teeth out.

“All of that, I did for you, Will.”

And his voice is so calm and sincere that Will isn’t sure he isn’t going crazy again. It just makes no damn sense.

“Why?” is all he can manage to ask. 

“So that you could be free. You can never be happy if you’re trapped in your own mind. You need to understand and accept yourself.”

“This isn’t who I am!” Will shouts and when did he cross the room and get so close to Hannibal? He’s breathing fast and heavy and his blood is rushing in his ears and Hannibal is standing right in front of him so calm and relaxed and why can’t Will feel like that? Where’s  _ his _ grace?

Hannibal looks at him with what appears to be genuine sadness in his eyes. He reaches for Will, who freezes like a feral creature, muscles strung tight and ready to spring into action. But Hannibal merely slips a few fingers into the pocket of Will’s jeans. He pulls out what he finds there and offers it up for Will see, held delicately between his first and second fingers. Long fingers. Musician’s fingers. 

It’s Forest Avery’s driver’s license. 

Will flinches as if Hannibal had produced something venomous. He doesn’t remember putting the card in his pocket that morning. Had Hannibal planted it on him or had he picked it up without thinking? Will isn’t sure which he finds more unsettling: that Hannibal might be trying to mess with his head again or that he’s become so blasé about murder as to casually carry incriminating evidence against himself in his own damn pocket. 

He snatches it angrily back and shoves it into his pocket like he can hide his guilt in the darkness there.

Hannibal simply watches him.

“I was protecting us,” he snaps.

“Of course.”

Will had been expecting Hannibal to argue somehow and this agreement makes him lose his footing.

“You didn’t want us to get caught,” Hannibal continues, still in the tone of dealing with tantrum-prone toddler. “You wanted to keep us safe.”

“Yes,” Will says cautiously.

“You didn’t want the FBI to find out where we are.”

“No.”

“You did the right thing. You protected Abigail.” 

Will nods, a little uncertainty. 

Hannibal offers his arms to Will, not a large gesture, but one that invites Will to closeness and safety. Will takes a careful step forward, still with those feral movements rippling under his skin. Hannibal moves to meet him and gently encircles Will in his arms, pulling their bodies together. One hand comes up to press against the base of Will’s skull and he gives into the pressure, allowing his forehead to come to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. He stands still otherwise, arms at his side and eyes open, looking down towards their feet. He can see the rise and fall of their chests: his still a little rapid and Hannibal’s steady and even. He feels Hannibal turn his head so that his breath tickles Will’s ear. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to be feeling in this moment. If this is Hannibal’s idea of comfort, it needs some work. Yet, he doesn’t step away. He lets Hannibal smooth a hand up and down his back in slow, calming strokes. His breathing starts to even out and, despite his better judgement, his body starts to relax. 

No one can find them here. None of the terrors of his former life can reach them save the one he chose to align himself with. This is as safe he can ever be again, standing here in the arms of a killer. He lets his body slump against Hannibal’s, lets the murderer before him take some of his weight. Hannibal accepts him. Hannibal protects him. Hannibal gave him this farm and brought his dogs to Italy, for Christ's sake. No one has ever understood him like Hannibal does. And maybe… Dare he even think it? Maybe no one has ever loved him like Hannibal does.

“You did what you had to to be yourself,” Hannibal whispers in his ear.

Will goes rigid again, but Hannibal holds him in place, hands firm on his body. 

“It’s alright, Will,” he says, voice still gentle. “You made the right choice for all of us, but especially for you.”

Will shakes his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I know it’s hard. Accepting ourselves can be one of life’s most difficult tasks.”

Will feels sick.

“No,” he mumbles.

“You have to do this. It’s about your survival, Will.”

He shakes his head harder and finds that he’s raised one hand to clutch at Hannibal’s shirt-front. He doesn’t remember doing it, but now he clings to the fabric like a life-line.

Hannibal tries to take a half-step back from Will, but Will’s grip on his shirt is unrelenting. Hannibal slides a hand to Will’s and gently pries open his grip until Will finds himself holding Hannibal’s hand. He stares at their hands, his own white knuckles and Hannibal’s elegant fingers. Hannibal lifts Will’s chin with a gentle yet firm touch until Will has little choice but to look at him.

Hannibal studies Will carefully for a long moment.

“This is your becoming, Will. Embrace it.”

Will shakes his head slowly. Hannibal lets him, gives him time. Will is realizing too many things at once, but they all narrow down to a single point and that point is standing right in front of him.

“No,” he says slowly. “You were.”

A smiles breaks over Hannibal’s face like the dawn. 

“Oh, my Will. You are so much more magnificent than you know.”

He studies Will intently for a long moment and Will meets his eyes, unflinching. Maybe Hannibal was right about him. And maybe that’s alright. In a twisted, fucked-up sort of way. Or maybe he’s just crazier than he’d accounted for. Whatever the reason, Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes and sees his future. Not exactly the future he’d hoped for, but maybe one where he can be himself. Maybe even one where he can be happy. And what else could anyone really ask for?

“Come,” Hannibal says, stepping away from Will. “Help me cook.”

“What are we having?” Will asks, following Hannibal towards the fridge. 

Hannibal hums softly, thinking for a moment.

" Lamb.”

Will knows that isn’t true, but he finds himself smiling slightly as Hannibal takes the meat from the fridge and places it on a cutting board. He pulls out one of his preferred knives, solid stainless steel that sings softly as he draws it from the block. He looks at it for a moment, checking the edge on his thumb and then raising his eyes to Will.

" You may cut.”

Hannibal has never offered him this before and Will finds his mouth is dry as he steps forward.

“I’m not as good as you are,” he says, hesitating beside Hannibal.

“I will teach you.”

Hannibal holds out one hand to Will and Will allows himself to be moved, pulled into Hannibal’s orbit. Hannibal tucks Will easily against his chest and places the knife in Will’s grip. He takes each of Will’s hands and guides him carefully. Will can’t keep us eyes from fluttering at the sensation of Hannibal’s hands on his, controlling his movements.

“Focus, Will,” Hannibal whispers in his ear.

Will nods mutely and tries to understand what Hannibal is showing him.

“Do you feel the grain of the meat?”

Will nods again.

“Good.” 

Hannibal moves Will through the cuts in slow-motion and Will tries to take information into his brain that isn’t the weight of Hannibal’s hand on his, the heat of Hannibal’s chest against his back, the whisper of Hannibal’s breath in his ear.  _ Focus, Will, focus _ . But it’s all meaningless. Everything that isn’t Hannibal is just so much meaningless noise.

“Don’t think of the knife as a means to an end, but rather as an extension of the self,” Hannibal says.

Will sees his hands, pale against raw flesh, sees the knife gleaming and sharp. He can feel the weight of it in this hand and it’s almost like holding onto something electric, the way he can sense the power of that simple object. It tingles up his arm, sliding along his nerves to his spine and on into his brain. He could do so much with this piece of metal. They are nearing the end of the meat and Will is gripped by the feeling of time running out. He thinks Hannibal is speaking again, but he isn’t sure. He feels as if Hannibal’s very breath has slid inside him and clouded his thoughts. The only thing that can pierce through the mist, he is sure, is the blade of the knife.

Hannibal is starting to lift his hand from Will’s, starting to pull his body away, starting to instruct Will on the next process of preparing the meat. Each inch of contact with Hannibal that he loses is a mooring cut free and he isn’t ready to leave the shore. His mind has become a vessel that he cannot steer and maybe he is becoming, but it is far from over.

Two things remain solid for Will as he reels on a sea of shock: Hannibal Lecter and the knife in his hand.

Hannibal has just broken all contact with Will (Is he still speaking? Speaking again? What is he doing?) and Will whirls around, faster than thinking, and brings the two things he understands together.

_ It’s grounding, driving the knife into Hannibal’s chest until his fist is pressed against the man’s shirtfront. Will is suddenly anchored, no longer adrift in a world he is not yet ready for. He hadn’t realized how much his vision had tunneled until it starts to expand again. He can see Hannibal’s chest, rising and falling rapidly as his own. He can see blood starting to seep across pressed, white fabric. He can see Hannibal’s mouth, slightly open, but unmoving. He can see Hannibal’s eyes, an expression of something between shock and joy locked in their depths. Will feels his breathing start to slow. He’s done it. He’s found control. He taken control. Abigail can be safe and happy and he can be Will Graham, crazy but harmless, and everything will be alright. It will all be alright. Just as soon as Hannibal hits the ground, it will be alright. _

Hannibal grabs the knife and Will thinks he can hear the blade slice into Hannibal’s palm before their fists collide. The heartbeat it takes Will to realize what has happened is all the time Hannibal needs to wrench the knife from Will’s grasp and send it skittering across the floor. His hand is bleeding freely and the flashes of scarlet become a third thing that Will understands.

Will gives no quarter and lunges for Hannibal, animalistic rage fueling his every move. Hannibal had made his bed and he could damn well die in it as far as Will is concerned. The knife is out of reach now, but his previous fight with Hannibal had taught him a few things and Hannibal’s injury is giving him an advantage.

Will goes low with his lunge and catches Hannibal in the solar plexus with his shoulder. Hannibal staggers back, but can only go a few feet before he hits the kitchen island. He catches himself with his hands, leaving a smear of blood across the otherwise pristine surface, and launches himself back at Will. He slams Will into the counter and pain bursts across his lower back as his pelvis collides with the metal edge behind him. Hannibal presses forward, uninjured hand finding purchase on the edge of the sink behind Will and pinning him in as the other moves towards Will’s throat.

Hannibal barely gets his fingers (hot, sticky, sliding across Will’s skin) to his windpipe before Will throws him off again. He gets a hand on each of Hannibal’s shoulders and flings him to the ground between the counter and the island. Hannibal starts to push himself up again, but Will grabs the cutting board, sending meat flying, and bears down on him. He gets a knee in Hannibal’s stomach and hits him hard in the side of the head with the board. There’s a terrible thud and Hannibal’s head whips to the side. Will is gasping and there’s blood smeared across both of them, but for once it isn’t Will’s.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he pants.

Hannibal looks up and him, baring his teeth in what could be a smile or a grimace of pain.

“There isn’t one,” he says.

Will feels his breath catch. He stares down at Hannibal, bleeding and pliant beneath him. He could do it. He could kill Hannibal. He could end it all and set them free. His eyes sweep the floor for the knife and he sees it, just out of reach. He could win this fight if he wanted to. He could disappear and become… what?

What could he be now without Hannibal? Once, maybe, he could have escaped Hannibal’s gravity, but that chance slipped through his fingers the moment Will realized who was responsible for the Ripper killings. Or maybe it had never existed at all. Maybe Will had been Hannibal’s from the moment the man got him in his sights. Without Hannibal Will would be lost, unmoored and wandering with no more sense of who he is than Abel Gideon had had. Without Hannibal, all Will can ever be again is something akin to the house back in Baltimore: simply an empty shell left behind, a place where Hannibal Lecter no longer is. 

The cutting board falls heavily to the floor behind Hannibal’s head as Will’s hand loses the will to hold it any longer.

“I should hate you,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I should kill you.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal muses and Will hates how calm he is even now. “Or I should kill you. You freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they're the same.”

“We're conjoined.” Will smiles bitterly. “And I think it’s too late for either of us to survive separation.”

“What will you do then?”

Will looks down at Hannibal, bloody and panting beneath him.  _ What do you want, Will?  _ Hannibal is looking up at him, pupils blown so wide that barely any color shows.  _ Admit what you want, Will.  _ Will can feel Hannibal’s chest rising and falling, rapid, uneven breaths pressing themselves out against Will’s leg.  _ You know what you want, Will. _ Will can hear one of the dogs scratching at the kitchen door, drawn by the noises and the smell of food.  _ Take what you want, Will. _

“Live,” Will says. “Become.”

And he grabs Hannibal by the collar, jerks him up, and kisses him.

It's hard and rough and bloody and everything Will wants. He lives in that moment, his mind blissfully blank of anything but the sensations of the kiss, his whole world narrowed to the points of contact between their bodies. He’s aflame again, but this time it’s the real world. Hannibal grabs at Will’s shirt, trying to hold himself up, and the second Will feels the tug he drops Hannibal roughly and feels a spike of pleasure in his brain when he hears Hannibal’s head hit the floor. 

Still, Hannibal smiles up at him, feral and bloody and wanting, and Will can feel animal lust spreading through his body like toxin, numbing his mind yet sharpening his senses. He can feel  _ everything _ and the sensations overwhelm any thoughts that remain. He moves on instinct, scrambling roughly to reposition his body over Hannibal’s, straddling his hips and then dropping a hand to either side of his head. Hannibal lets him do it, lying still, lying in wait. There’s blood smeared across the kitchen floor and Will could have him right here.

All those endless months of torment. All those intense looks and double entendres and hours spent in Hannibal’s office, in his dining room, in his mind. Their past stretches out into the distance, a winding, twisted path, a tangle of briers and antlers that only could have led them here. All of it, all the blood and death, all the longing and hating, has come down to this, to Will over Hannibal’s body. He’d known for a long time that their story could only end this way, with one of them over the bloody body of the other, but this is more than he could have ever hoped for.

“I want you,” Will says, voice low and raw.

“And?” Hannibal prompts.

“And I think it’s about damn time I got what I want.”

Hannibal smiles at him.

“What a marvelous boy you are, Will.” 

Will hits him, hard, across the face, but Hannibal only smiles, blood on his face and darkness in his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Afterwards, Will sits Hannibal down on the edge of the bathtub and kneels before him to tend to his injuries. He’s forcing himself to focus on the task, to keep his mind from what had just happened. He cleans the wound on Hannibal’s hand with a damp cloth and applies antibiotic cream before wrapping it in gauze and medical tape. 

“You should get that looked at by a doctor tomorrow,” he says, eyes fixed firmly on Hannibal’s hand.

“I am a doctor, Will,” Hannibal points out. The fingers of his free hand find Will’s chin and he tries to lift his face, but Will shakes him off.

“How’s your head?” he asks, rising to examine Hannibal’s hairline.

“Fine.”

Will snorts as he gently probes the noticeable bump on the side of Hannibal’s head where he’d hit him with the cutting board. Hannibal doesn’t flinch.

“Not concussed?”

“Not concussed.”

Will moves away to wash his hands. When he turns to reach for the towel, Hannibal is standing there, too close, and Will startles away. While Hannibal is languid and relaxed in the aftermath, Will feels tense and flighty. 

“Your turn,” Hannibal says and guides Will to take his place on the edge of the tub.

He rinses out the cloth and kneels in front of Will. Will shivers and closes his eyes. He can’t look at Hannibal like this, on his knees at Will’s feet in only his underwear; it’s too much. He can’t block out sensation, though, and he is almost painful aware of every touch sending signals down his over-stimulated nerves. But Hannibal’s hands are gentle on his skin as he cleans the bites and scratches on Will’s body. Even the ones that broke the skin don’t really need medical attention, but Will lets him do it, holding as still as he can while Hannibal rubs the cream over the worst of the marks.

Hannibal makes a thorough inspection of Will before rising to his feet. Will opens his eyes now, but keeps his gaze on the plush bath mat (another of Hannibal’s little luxuries that is only now starting to feel familiar to Will). He isn’t ashamed; that’s not what he’s feeling. But he cannot bring himself to look at Hannibal in this moment. Instead, he watches Hannibal’s feet move to the sink out of his peripheral vision and hears the water turn on and then off.

“Will?”

Will makes a small noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat, but this is, apparently, not enough.

“Will.”

“What?” he asks the bathmat.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Why?” 

Will sees Hannibal’s feet shift closer to him and he feels his body tense without his permission. He isn’t scared of Hannibal.

“Don’t want to.”

He hears Hannibal let out a soft breath of laughter and then he’s kneeling down into Will’s field of vision once more. Hannibal lifts Will’s chin again, more firmly this time. When Will looks into Hannibal’s face, he’s surprised to see what looks very much like genuine concern there.

“I need to know that you’re alright,” Hannibal says calmly.

Will looks into his face for a long moment. He can tell this isn’t part of the game. The game is over now, or close enough for it not to matter, so Hannibal’s actions hold different meaning than they once would have. Will can no longer rely on his profile of the Ripper to understand Hannibal. He can’t use that supposed third person as a shield. Now, he has to go deeper, has to fall into Hannibal himself to understand the why behind Hannibal’s eyes.

Will closes his eyes for a moment. He sees himself, sitting naked on the edge of the tub. He looks pale, despite the flush in his cheeks and it makes the marks Hannibal has left on his body, marks of possession and needing, stand out all the more clearly. He looks vulnerable, sitting there, curled in on himself as if he has anything left to hide from the man before him. He considers the man on the edge of the tub, considers his mussed hair, his newly tanned skin peppered with freckles and small wounds. He considers his build, narrow yet strong from work, and he considers the darkness in those downcast eyes.

_ I want him from the first moment I see his mind, but it takes time for me to understand  _ how _ I want him. I court him, use him, lead him to the exact place I want him to be. I make him want what I want, but let him believe that his mind is still his own. I let him think he’s taking what he wants from me, but this — this joining, this becoming — has been my desire all along. I brand him with my marks so that later he will understand that he is mine, now and for always. I ensure that we can never escape each other’s orbits and that to try to do so would mean nothing but mutual destruction. This is my design.  _

Will opens his eyes. He understands it, but, somehow, he doesn’t hate it, doesn’t fear it. It was all a courtship.

“I’m alright,” he says and meets Hannibal’s eyes to prove he means it.

“Good.” Hannibal rises elegantly to his feet. “Then I believe I owe you dinner.” And with that he leaves Will alone in the bathroom.

Will takes a long, hot shower. His body hurts. He’s sure he’ll have bruises on his knees before long from where he’d knelt over Hannibal. The water stings the breaks in his skin and there is, of course, that tender ache. He hasn’t done…  _ that _ since college and they didn’t exactly work their way up to it. He can’t forget what happened quickly, even if he wanted to, something that has surely already occurred to and greatly pleased Hannibal.

It had taken them so long to reach that moment and yet when it had come, it had all happened so fast. Will tries to think through it, piece by piece, but it’s all a blur of sensation and wanting and pain and lust and hatred and something else that Will still can’t quite bring himself to fully look at yet. Somewhere between tearing off each other’s clothes and lowering himself onto Hannibal’s body, sometime after Hannibal had sunk his teeth into Will’s flesh and before they’d been gasping for breath as they fucked on the kitchen floor, Will had realized something. He turns it over gently in his mind now, careful not to let the thought escape. He inspects it, seeking out flaws, comparing it to the past, and seeing if it is, indeed, what he wants. By the time he’s dressed again in loose jeans and a t-shirt, he has his answer.

The dogs gather around Will as he heads towards the kitchen and he diverts from his path to let them out, leaving the door propped open for them. The night air is cool and fresh and he takes a moment to feel it on his skin. Will pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning on the frame and taking in the sight before him.

Hannibal is, of course, cooking. But he’s doing it in an honest-to-god silk robe. Will stares at this, shaking his head at how unfairly well Hannibal is pulling it off. He can only watch for a moment, though, as Hannibal soon turns to smile at him.

“Linguine with samphire and champagne shrimp,” Hannibal says, gesturing to the stove.

Will raises his eyebrows.

“Shrimp?”

“Would you prefer something  _ heavier _ ?” he stresses the last word delicately. 

Will walks to the fridge and peers inside.

“If you pull out that monstrosity you made earlier,” Hannibal threatens absently.

“It’s good for the dogs,” Will replies, while smiling at the fact that Hannibal had put the dog food neatly into Tupperwares marked “do not eat.” He pokes around in the fridge. “Did you make these?” he asks, holding up a vacuum-packed (they have a vacuum-packer?) quartet of sausages.

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “Would you like them?”

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Hannibal smiles.

❈❈❈

They eat in silence at first, enjoying the food and the wine. But things have changed in Will’s mind in the past few hours and he’s ready to send the pointless laws of society to hell and allow himself to do more than simply survive. He’s ready to live.

“I’d like to be blunt with you,” he says.

Hannibal sets down his glass and looks at Will, attention totally focused on him.

“Please do.”

Will nods and sets down his cutlery. 

“I have two conditions,” he says.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. His expression makes it clear that he doesn't think Will is much of a position to bargain, but he inclines his head a little anyway, an invitation for Will to elaborate.

"Firstly, we don't kill the innocent."

Hannibal snorts softly.

"You said it yourself. I’m no vigilante."

"I didn't say I wanted you to mete out justice. I said  _ we _ won’t kill the innocent. What you do on your own time is your own problem."

"No one is truly innocent."

Will shrugs lopsidedly, neither an argument nor an agreement. 

"I will provide you with a name and other pertinent information beforehand. Will that be sufficient?"

“Thoroughly."

Hannibal nods and sips his wine.

"And what is your second condition?"

"Leave Abigail out of it."

Hannibal studies him carefully, but Will's expression is set and determined. He's more likely to be lenient with his former condition than his latter and Hannibal can see it in his face. He supposes he's known for a long time that he would have to make certain sacrifices when it came to Will and Abigail and that some of these sacrifices might include having to choose the one over the other. Fortunately, he's already decided which he'd rather have. 

"Very well."

Will raises his eyebrows slightly. He'd been half expecting to have to fight with Hannibal again.

"She's not going come with us — or with you alone," he adds quickly. "She doesn't know what we're doing. She doesn't eat anything... untoward. We do nothing that might compromise her."

"Killing anyone might compromise her," Hannibal points out dryly before he takes another bite of food.

"Not if we know what we're doing,” Will counters.

"Which we do."

"Which we do."

Hannibal smiles and Will doesn't know when the look stopped unnerving him. 

They return to their meal.

Will looks to Hannibal before he starts the dishes. Sometimes, Hannibal stays at the farm on Sunday nights, while other times he returns to Florence. He’s still dressed only in the robe, but he seems a little restless to Will.

“Are you staying?” he asks.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Will should have expected that answer. He thinks for a moment before answering.

“Not tonight,” he says, but it holds the promise of other nights to come.

❈❈❈

Will knows that one of two things is true: either he has always been this person or Hannibal has broken him so thoroughly that he has become someone entirely new. He knows a second thing as well: either way, he doesn’t care. This is who he is and it’s nothing short of staggering. He feels things inside himself that he had only ever felt inside others before. He feels power and it is his own. He feels desire and it is his own. He feels strength and rage and joy and glorious detachment and all of it is his own. 

And yet he, himself, is not his own.

Likely, he has not been his own for a long time, but he knows it now, lives it. He is Hannibal’s.

The knowledge doesn’t frighten him the way he’d thought it might and he supposes it’s something he’s known for a long time. It’s certainly been true since he’d killed Jack Crawford. No point in denying it.

There’s only one piece of the puzzle that Will still can’t quite bring himself to snap into place. The hole is clearly there and he can feel the piece in his hand, imagine the way it would fit, but he can’t look it at, can’t allow the picture to become whole.

He doesn’t want his feelings for Hannibal to be real.

It had been one thing when he’d just had a weird crush on his eccentric psychiatrist. And it had been one thing when he’d been medically insane. But this is  _ different _ . This is real and yet, somehow, agreeing to murder and canibalism was much easier than facing the idea that what he feels for Hannibal might be… 

❈❈❈

Will spends as much time as possible outside with the dogs that week. They work on the farm and wander the land and when it all becomes too much he knows how to make it all go away. The dogs don’t seem bothered by the long stretches of time Will spends standing in the middle of a field or the olive grove, the only movement in his body the flickering of his eyes behind closed lids.

Will casts his line and waits with a patience that it took him years to cultivate. He listens to the song of water and the sounds of the wildlife of Wolf Trap. The water moves around his body, gently caressing him through his waders. He is safe and alone and no one can ever find him here.

But he can’t spend all his time in his stream. Dante needs training and the land needs tending and, at the very least, he has to be sure that they are all fed. Will has to go into the village for food and a few other essentials. He dislikes the task. He knows that no one there will — or can — hurt him, but it always feels unsafe somehow. The sky is threatening rain and he rounds up the pack and sends them inside. Winston, however, follows him to the door and watches Will gather his things with his head tilted to one side, clearly waiting.

“You wanna come with me, huh?” Will asks and, while Winston doesn’t nod, his answer is as clear as if he had. Will laughs a little to himself and clips a leash to Winston’s collar.

They go out to the truck and Will rolls down the windows so Winston can stick his nose out. They drive to the village and Winston waits politely while Will buys their groceries. Winston is welcome in the general store so Will swaps him for the groceries at the truck before going to pick up the things he needs to do a few repairs around the house. The owner greets him with a booming “our American!” and comes out from behind the counter to rub Winston behind the ears. Will leaves them to it while he goes to look for what he needs.

Back outside, he is about to return to the truck and the safety of the farm when he hears some kind of commotion coming from around the corner. Frowning, he gets a firmer grip on Winston’s leash and goes to look. The people don’t sound distressed, but he knows all too well that humans are prone to excitement over the macabre. 

However, Will is not faced with a body or grisly scene when he and Winston turn the corner. They are faced, instead, with a small farmers’ market. It must be one of the first of year, Will thinks, as he cautiously wanders the block of stalls and people. He stops by one that has trays of seedlings. He doesn’t get close enough that the young woman working there is likely to speak to him, but he can recognize quite a few of the plants, various herbs and some vegetables.

The patrons in front of him clear away with their purchases and Will suddenly finds himself exposed to the woman’s gaze. Winston, unaffected by social anxiety as he is, tugs slightly at the leash and Will reluctantly steps forward.

“ _ Ciao _ ,” she says, smiling. 

“ _ Buongiorno _ ,” Will replies.

“Oh,” she says, her smile growing. “You must be the American.”

“That would be me, yes,” Will admits, smiling a little himself.

“Your dog is beautiful. Can I pet him?”

“He might not forgive you if you don’t.”

She laughs and kneels to rub Winston’s ears. Winston melts against her. Will turns his attention to her little plants.

“Thinking of starting a kitchen garden?” she asks. “I’ve got everything you need expect the dirt and a hose.”

“I’m not much of a gardener, but if you have anything that isn’t too easy to kill…”

The woman beams at him and starts talking about the plants. Every now and then she has to pause and struggle for a word, but she seems quite fluent to Will, which is a nice change. Most of the people in the village seem to speak several kinds of Italian and usually French or German, but the majority of the people he sees these days don't speak more than a smattering of English.

“Did you study abroad?” he asks as she organizes tiny plants for him.

“Yes,” she says. “I went to university in Canada.”

“Canada? That’s kind of unusual, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, but I guess I’m kind of unusual.” She laughs. “And I have some family there. My uncle married a Canadian.” 

Will nods.

“What brings you to Italy?” she asks.

“My, uh, my husband got a job here.”

She nods, seemingly unfazed by this information. Will pays for the plants and whistles to Winston.

“Stop being an attention whore and come on home.”

The woman laughs again.

“I’m Aurora, by the way,” she says. “Maybe you’ll come back next week and tell me how they’re doing.” She gestures towards the tray of seedlings in Will’s hands.

“Um, yeah,” he says. He feels like she’s flirting with him, but he can’t be sure. He did just tell her that he was married to a man, didn’t he? Maybe this is just how normal people make friends. “I’m Frances,” he adds somewhat belatedly. “And this is Winston.”

“I’ll see you two around, then.  _ Ciao _ !”

“ _ Ciao _ .”

Will and Winston are back inside the truck just before the sky opens up. They drive back through the downpour and Will thinks that maybe it will be better to plant the seedlings into wet earth. He leaves them in the truck for now and makes a dash for the door with the groceries and Winston when they get back. Once the food is put away, he wanders around the house, which has various books stashed on shelves here and there, until he finds a volume on gardening. He curls up in the living room with it and the dogs and ends up falling asleep to the sound of rain.


	10. Chapter 10

Will is standing in the garden, looking around at the plants. They’re growing well and it makes him smile. Hannibal is going to be so pleased when he sees what Will has made for him. He wanders between the rows of plants, pausing here and there to check that the ground is moist and to pull up weeds. The soil is rich and dark and the plants are growing in healthy and strong. Will bends to pull up a weed, but finds that its roots are much longer than he’d expected. A few, fragile threads hang from the bottom of the little plant in his fist and lead back into the dark earth. Will tugs harder and more of the root exposes itself. It looks, he thinks, like hair. He follows the hair, pulling up more and more of it, into a thick patch of growth. The plants here are taller and soon they reach above Will’s head, large leaves dripping moisture onto his skin.

At last, he finds what seems to be the source of the hair. With a final yank, it comes free and disintegrates in his hands. He looks around and finds himself surrounded by strange, towering plants with glistening red leaves. The soil at his feet is black and wet, oozing dark liquid up onto his boots. He sees that it’s slightly disturbed where the hair broke away and he bends down and begins to clear it away with his hands. The soil is strangely hot, though Will himself feels chilled to the bone. It oozes through his fingers and he starts moving it more and more frantically and, at last, the thing in the earth is laid bare.

Before him, fully exposed from the soil, is a woman’s corpse, pale against the blood-soaked soil. She is naked and her hair is haloed around her sunken face, each strand leading away into the earth. As he stares in horror at what has been feeding his garden, he sees that the plants are growing from her, roots twining in and out of body, her hands and feet ending not in fingers and toes, but in plants growing at breakneck speed. Will tries to stumble backwards, but his feet are stuck fast in the bloody mud and vines are already starting to twist up his legs. His heart is racing and he can’t breath and he tries to scream as Alana Bloom’s eyes snap open.

❈❈❈

Will jerks up from the sofa, sweat-drenched and shaking. The dogs are watching him, alert and anxious. He staggers to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom. He falls to his knees and dry heaves over and over until his muscles ache and he finally slumps to the floor. He leans against the cool tile and takes slow, shuddering breaths. It’s been a long time since a dream hit him quite that hard. He looks up and sees several furry faces watching him from around the door and he waves them away weakly.

He sits there for a long, long time. Eventually, he’s able to push himself to his feet and he washes his face in cold water. It isn’t enough. He’s still shaking and sweating and he doesn’t feel like he knows where he is.  _ It’s the middle of the goddamn night, I’m in Italy, and my name is Will Graham. _ He knows. He knows he knows. But still…

He feels trapped, strangled by roots and lost in a distant jungle. He tugs frantically at his clothes until he is naked in front of the mirror, but still everything feels strange and unnatural. The more he comes back to himself from the dream, the less certain he feels about it. He turns on the shower and practically falls under the cold blast. He crumples to the tile and hunches there, shivering and sweating, feeling like he’s burning and like everything beyond the protective stream of water has gone, fallen away in the twisted darkness of his dreams. With the water running, he can’t hear the dogs, if the dogs even still exist, if anything still exists. He wraps his arms around his body, trying to physically hold his shattering life together. He doesn’t think it’s going to work. 

He can only hope that the water will never run out, that he’ll be able to stay here, clinging to the remains of reality forever. Or, if the water does run out, that Hannibal will be there when it does and can lead him back to something real.

❈❈❈

Will wakes up on the bathroom floor. The shower is still running and he doesn’t remember getting out of it. He sits up, turns off the water, and grabs for a towel. He’s still a little shaky as he walks to his room and gets dressed. His body aches from the dry heaving and sleeping on the tile floor, but his mind feels quieter. Still, he clearly has some things he needs to deal with. 

He goes downstairs and feeds the dogs and himself before following them outside. The rain has long ended, but the world is dewy and Will flinches at his first glance of the soil soaked dark from the storm. He forces himself to breathe deeply and he smells only fresh rain and wet earth. The air is cool and there is no stench of blood. He runs a hand through his hair and watches the dogs soak themselves rolling in the wet grass. He goes back inside to make coffee and, eventually, starts to feel human again. He wonders what had set him off so badly. The woman at the farmers’ market, Aurora, hadn’t looked anything like Alana and he’d had no desire to kill her. He supposes it’s just a delayed reaction to his bargain with Hannibal. Still, he wishes there was someone he could talk to about it.

Will quickly shoves the feelings of loneliness and missing back down before they have time to bloom in his chest and poison his whole being. He’d known what it had meant when he gave up his old life. He’d made the choice he’d had to in order to survive.

He tries to shake it all off and goes to the truck to get the seedlings before the cab heats up too much. He’s had his eye on a spot near the backdoor for a while now as a potential garden. Will doesn’t know much about it, but Aurora had given him some good advice and he figures that nature makes it happen all the time so it can’t be that hard.

_ Easier to take a life than to make one _ , mutters a voice in the back of his mind that Will shoves roughly away.

He spends the rest of the morning digging up the area he wants to turn into a garden, the moist soil cool and pleasant against his skin. By noon, he’s covered in dirt and sweat-drenched again, but it’s a good, natural sweat. He goes inside and makes himself a simple lunch while he waits out the worst heat of the day. He doesn’t bother taking another shower yet, knowing he’ll just get dirty again.

The dogs seem to enjoy spending the day outside with him and by sunset he has all the little plants tucked safely into the earth and most of a low fence set up around the garden. He doesn’t think there’s a whole lot in the area that will eat the little plants, especially with the dogs running around, but it will at least keep canine paws from trampling growing seedlings. 

Will takes another shower before bed, this one a more reasonable temperature, and wades into the stream and fishes until he falls asleep.

❈❈❈

The next day, Will walks down the long driveway to check the mail. They almost never get mail, but it’s nearly the end of the month and even fugitives in Italy have to pay their power bills. He finds that there is a bill and also an envelope addressed to F. Fell. There’s no return address, but it’s postmarked Florence and Will has a pretty good idea of what he will find inside. He resists opening it until he’s back in the house, sitting in the kitchen — Hannibal’s kitchen — with a cup of coffee.

He opens the envelope and finds a single line of newsprint inside. It was clearly cut from a headline and it nearly flutters to the floor when Will tries to tip it out onto the counter. He grabs it from the air and reads, “Purcell Slater aka “Le Délinquant de Lyon” suspected” and there the line ends. Will stares at the words for a long moment. On the one hand, it’s too soon. He knows that it’s too soon. On the other hand, however, there are his dream and the noise in his mind, noise that he now knows how to quiet. 

Will puts the slip back in the envelope and burns it in the sink before going outside to check on the garden and finish its fence. The weekend can’t come soon enough.

❈❈❈

Hannibal appears on Friday evening with, to Will’s slight disappointment, Abigail in tow. He’d thought she couldn’t get away that weekend, but Hannibal smiles and explains that her plans had changed and he doesn’t miss the flicker of disappointment in Will’s eyes. Still, Will smiles as he leads them through the house to back door off the kitchen.

“I want to show you something,” he tells them.

They step outside, the tide of dogs flowing around and past them. Abigail is more interested in their antics than the little plants, but Will hears Hannibal’s soft intake of breath. He watches the other man go to inspect the seedlings.

“This is lovely, Will,” he says, tone bland, but eyes sparkling. 

“Is Dante already bigger?” asks Abigail. She’s sitting on the ground with the pup frantically licking her face.

“Yeah,” Will says. “He’s growing like hell, so to speak.”

“I’m going to start dinner,” Hannibal says. “Coming?”

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Abigail says. 

He nods and returns to the kitchen. Will takes a moment to enjoy watching her laugh with the dogs before following Hannibal inside. He finds him standing in the kitchen, clearly waiting.

“You planted me a garden,” he says.

“Yes.”

“For cooking.”

“Yes.”

A smile curves Hannibal’s mouth and he takes several, swift strides to Will. He grabs Will’s collar and jerks him just out of sight of the window before kissing him hard on the mouth. Will feels his breath stutter at the sudden passion, but then his body is melting against Hannibal’s and his hands have just found purchase on Hannibal’s back when he pulls away.

“Will,” he says, voice low and husky.

Will can feel Hannibal’s words on his face and he isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe.

“We will make the most wonderful meals together. The world will be our garden.”

Will doesn’t know how to answer that so instead he leans in, body aching to kiss Hannibal again, but he is pushed aside and Hannibal turns to the stove as if nothing has happened.

“If I’d known you felt that strongly about plants,” Will mutters.

Hannibal chuckles slightly.

“You know I feel strongly about fresh ingredients.”

Will rolls his eyes.

“You got my letter,” Hannibal says casually.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And that is all that needs to be said.

❈❈❈

After dinner, Hannibal takes Abigail into his office where he has recently situated a harpsichord. It dominates the space and Will suspects that Hannibal will redo the whole room before too long just to make the instrument look better. Apparently, the piano in Florence wasn’t enough.

Will does the dishes to the sounds of Hannibal showing Abigail the workings of the instrument. He listens to the patient rise and fall of Hannibal’s voice, to Abigail stumbling through the simple exercises that had sounded so elegant under Hannibal’s long fingers. He finishes the dishes, but doesn't interrupt them. Instead, he settles in the living room to brush the dogs. Dante wriggles and squirms, but Will holds him, gentle yet secure, and patiently works the beginnings of mats out of his soft fluff.

Eventually, Hannibal decides they’ve had enough for one night and they join Will and the dogs in the living room. Abigail takes up a brush as well and settles on the floor with Winston, her back against the sofa where Hannibal sits. He has taken off his jacket, but still has on his vest and he looks stately even in the humble, rustic space. He has brought a book from his office and he thumbs through it for a moment before he begins to read aloud.

It takes Will several lines before he realizes that he doesn’t understand the words not because he doesn’t speak Italian, but because he doesn’t speak Lithuanian. He glances at Abigail, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it, though he can guess from her face that she has no more idea of what Hannibal is saying then he does.

The rise and fall of the Hannibal’s voice is soothing and Will feels he could lose himself in it. He continues his work with the dogs, brushing fur and removing dried grass and leaves, and, when he next looks up, he sees that Abigail has fallen asleep. He manages to catch Hannibal’s eye and nods toward the slumbering girl. Hannibal smiles, quietly closes his book, and gets to his feet. Will detangles himself from the dogs and rises as well. Hannibal squats down beside Abigail and gently wakes her.

“Time for bed, I think,” he says.

She nods sleepily and he helps her to her feet. 

“Goodnight,” Will says softly.

“Night,” Abigail mumbles. 

Will can’t help smiling as he watches Hannibal accompany her upstairs. He wonders if this is the sort of feeling parents have. The closest thing he understands to a parent’s love is the dark mind of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He stretches, about ready for bed himself, but he finds that he’s waiting for Hannibal to come back downstairs. He lets himself do it. 

Hannibal reappears shortly.

“Put the kid to bed,” Will teases.

“Yes,” says Hannibal.

Will shakes his head.

“What were you reading?” he asks.

“ _ Metai. _ ”

“Oh,” says Will, with no idea what Hannibal means.

Hannibal chuckles.

“ _ The Seasons.  _ It’s poetry,” he explains.

Will nods.

“I’m sorry to delay our plans, but I thought you would want to prioritize Abigail, so when she called me…”

“Of course.”

Will moves away, turning off lights and making sure the house is ready for sleep. When he turns to the stairs, he finds Hannibal standing there, watching him.

“Thank you, Will,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“The garden.”

Will shrugs.

“Hopefully I won’t kill it.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Hannibal says, stepping closer to Will’s space. “You are so full of life.”

Will frowns at that. He is so not awake enough for Cryptic Bullshit Time With Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal reaches out and gently touches Will’s cheek. 

“I missed you this week,” he says. “I hate to be away from you for so long.”

Will swallows. He can feel the things he’s been trying to ignore rising up in his chest, fighting to burst free and wrap themselves around Hannibal. He wants to get away, but his path his blocked and he feels sure that if he touches the man, the things in his chest will ignite into an unquenchable fire. 

“What are you thinking?” Hannibal asks, frowning, clearly displeased at having to ask at all.

“That I want to go to bed,” Will says, a bit petulantly. 

“Oh my Will, still fighting yourself to the bitter end.”

Will starts to retort that he isn’t Hannibal’s, but stops himself. No more lies, not with Hannibal. He shrugs instead.

“Get some rest,” Hannibal says, stepping magnanimously aside and allowing Will passage to his bedroom.

“You too,” he mutters and heads upstairs.

When he drops into bed, he feels bone tired and yet his mind won’t be still. He can’t pin down any of the thoughts beyond a feeling that something is  _ wrong _ . He inwardly wishes that they had some NyQuil or something that he could abuse, but they don’t so he knows he’ll have to wait it out. He finally falls asleep thinking of the garden.


	11. Chapter 11

Will isn’t sure where he is, only that it’s somewhere dark. And bad. Is he back in the hospital? He feels something restraining him, but he's not sure what it is. It could be cuffs and a straightjacket or the monstrous vines of his garden. He breathes in, trying to catch a telltale whiff of ammonia or earth, but all he smells is the sweet, coppery stench of blood. He stares into the darkness, but he sees nothing.

“Will?”

He fights against his bonds, struggling for movement and then struggling for breath as the force tightens around his chest. Whatever it is, it’s strong, pulling him down into the overwhelming smell of blood. Will tries to fight it, but there is no freedom. It’s holding him down, pinning him, dragging him under and he cannot escape.

“ _ Will _ .”

Will’s eyes fly open and he tries to lurch upward, but whatever is restraining him is still there, powerful against his shoulders. Will struggles but the restraining force is strong and he's sweaty and shaking and cannot make his muscles obey him. He can’t think as his mind is flooded with fear; it’s been a long time since he couldn’t tell dreaming from waking and he cannot go back to that place and survive. Not again.

His vision finally comes into focus and he sees what's holding him down. It’s Hannibal, a look of concern on his face that surprises Will even in his shattered state. Will takes a few long breaths, willing the shaking to subside, but it does not. Hannibal takes his hands off Will’s shoulders and Will sits up on his elbows as best he can.

“You didn't tell me you were having nightmares again,” Hannibal says calmly, smoothing Will’s hair back from his sweaty forehead.

Will shakes him off, sitting up properly and wrapping his arms protectively around his body.

“It’s new,” he mutters.

“How new?” Hannibal asks, frowning.

“This is the second one since moving out here. Maybe the third.”

“Do you know to set them off?”

Will laughs bitterly.

“You’re the psychiatrist; you tell me,” he says.

“I thought I wasn't your psychiatrist anymore.”

Will rolls his eyes.

“Give it your best shot.”

Hannibal sighs. He’s wearing his bathrobe and looks, Will thinks, tired, his face creased with worry. He’s taking in Will and the tangle of sweat-drenched sheets around him and he shakes his head gently.

“Come,” he says, rising and holding out a hand to Will.

Will hesitates for a moment and then takes it. Hannibal steadies him as they make their way downstairs to the kitchen. Hannibal turns on a few lights, keeping the room dim but usable, and sets the kettle to boil.

“What are you doing?” Will mumbles.

“Making you tea.”

Will blinks at him. Hannibal taking care of him is not something he knows how to process. He thinks he should probably be alarmed, but he feels oddly comforted.

“What happened?” he asks. Outside, the moon is nearing the horizon again and Will can see the stars.

“I woke up and heard you,” he says simply.

“Just like that?”

“I also heard someone scratching at my door.” Hannibal nods to the floor where several of the dogs are watching them.

Will nods.

“I guess they aren’t used to it anymore.”

They fall silent until the tea is made and Hannibal sits down beside him, placing the mug on the table for Will.

“What happens in your dreams?” he asks.

Will shakes his head.

“I’m not sure. There’s blood. There’s always blood.”

“What else?”

Will takes a sip of the tea and allows its warmth to move through his body for a moment.

“I feel trapped,” he says slowly. “In the last one, I was lost, I think, and then tonight I felt like I was tied up. Or maybe strapped down.”

“Any unusual imagery?” 

Will frowns.

“Unusual for you, I mean,” he clarifies.

“Plants,” Will says after a moment. “Vines, maybe.”

“Do the vines hurt you?” 

“I don’t remember.”

Hannibal nods, but Will can tell he wants to keep pushing. He tries to scrape together a clear memory of one of his dreams that he can articulate to Hannibal.

“I saw Alana,” he says, words slow and quiet. “She was… dead? Maybe. I’m not sure. She was in the ground and these plants were all around us.”

“Around you?”

“Maybe coming from her?”

“What were the plants like?”

“Tall,” Will says. “Dark. They were strong and… wet?” He shakes his head, unsure, and drinks more tea.

“Your new life is growing out of your old one,” Hannibal says. “Alana may represent a whole world that you could never quite maneuver in. Had things been different, you and she might have had something together.”

Will nods, looking into his mug and trying not to remember that kiss.

“Your old life died, Will. You killed it and from its body, a new life is growing, feeding off of what your old one left behind.”

“Circle of life,” mutters Will bitterly.

“In a manner of speaking,” Hannibal says. “Your conscious and subconscious minds have been at odds for a good deal of your life; it may take some time for a new equilibrium to develop.”

Will nods and sips his tea. Hannibal is watching his face intently and it feels terribly clinical to Will.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“What?” asks Hannibal.

“Look at me like I’m a lab rat.”

“I’m sorry, Will,” he says and it sounds as if he genuinely means it. They sit in silence for a few minutes until Hannibal speaks again. “Do you want to wait?” he asks. “There will be others.”

“No,” Will says, his voice steady and strong for the first time since he woke up. “I need this.”

Hannibal smiles.

He watches Will finish his tea and when he sets down the mug empty Hannibal gets to his feet and holds out a hand to Will again. 

“Come,” he says.

Will obeys. 

Hannibal leads him back upstairs, but opens the door to his room, not Will’s. Will follows him inside, too tired now to protest. Hannibal closes the door and goes to his dresser. He pulls out a set of pajamas, neatly folded, and offers them to Will.

“Um?”

“Your clothes are dirty,” Hannibal says. “But I suspect you’re too tired to shower.”

Will can’t argue with that. He peels off his sweaty t-shirt and slowly does up the buttons on the pajama shirt. Hannibal gives him an expectant look from where he sits on one side of the bed and Will shucks off his boxers as well, keeping his eyes down so he doesn’t have to watch Hannibal watching him. Once he’s dressed, Hannibal pats the covers and Will goes to him.

Hannibal swings his legs into bed and stretches out. Will awkwardly lies down on the other side of the mattress, careful not to let any part of him touch Hannibal. 

Hannibal chuckles softly.

“I won’t bite,” he says.

Will snorts quietly.

“Not tonight, at least,” he amends.

Hannibal turns off the lamp on his bedside table and the room falls into darkness. The curtains are open, however, and soon enough Will’s eyes have adjusted to the moonlight and he is able to make out Hannibal’s profile.

“Sleep, Will,” he says. “You’re quite safe.”

Will nods and curls up under the blanket, his back to Hannibal.

He awakens once in the night to find himself pressed to something warm and strong and he doesn’t question it.

❈❈❈

In the morning, it takes Will a moment to remember where he is. He untangles himself from the sheets and glances around to find Hannibal sitting up in bed beside him. There’s a book open on his lap, but Will gets the impression he hasn’t been reading it. He raises his eyebrows at Hannibal.

“I'll confess it’s pleasant to look at you asleep,” he says. “You are quite beautiful, Will.” 

Will rolls his eyes and shoves himself out of bed. He ignores the weight of Hannibal’s gaze on his back as he leaves the room and closes the door softly behind him. The door to Abigail’s room is still shut so that, at least, is one less difficult situation to deal with. He rubs his eyes and bullies his body into going through the motions his morning routine. 

Bathroom.

Bedroom. Change. 

Downstairs.

Let dogs out.

Coffee.

Hannibal is waiting for Will in the kitchen and presses a hot mug into his hands.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Will thinks he used to be more functional in the mornings, but maybe that was just because he wasn’t really sleeping at night so it was all the same, regardless of time of day.

They’re both sipping coffee in silence when Abigail comes downstairs, still in her pajamas. She has Dante tucked under one arm and looks decidedly grumpy. The little dog is practically vibrating with excitement and is doing his level best to lick Abigail’s face. She shoves him into Will’s arms, nearly causing him to spill his coffee.

“Take this,” she grumbles.

Will accepts the dog and deposits him outside with the others while Hannibal placates Abigail with coffee.

“Little monster slept right on top of my head,” she tells them.

Will tries and fails to suppress a snort of laughter. She glares at him.

“Maybe sleeping with little claws on your face does it for you, but it is not my thing.” 

“I’m sure Will is working very hard to train Dante to behave himself,” Hannibal says.

“It’s just because he likes you,” Will offers, but Abigail is not impressed. “Just be sure to shut him out of your room at night.”

“I did, but he sat out in the hall and cried until I let him in.”

“Like the little brother you never had,” Will says.

Abigail rolls her eyes.

“Who wants breakfast?” Hannibal says, smiling disgustingly brightly at them.

Abigail perks up considerably once she gets some food in her, though Will still makes the dogs stay outside while they eat.

“So am I legally dead?” Abigail asks abruptly.

“You’re legally Andrea Fell,” Hannibal replies calmly.

“You know what I mean.”

“I think so,” says Will. “Unless new evidence was uncovered.” He shoots a look at Hannibal.

“Even the FBI rarely finds anything they aren’t looking for,” is Hannibal’s (unhelpfully cryptic) reply. 

“So they won’t find me. Because they aren’t looking.”

“No,” Hannibal says. “After Will was cleared of your murder — you’re welcome, by the way,” he adds to Will.

“Oh fuck you,” Will replies with a roll of his eyes.

Hannibal shakes his head indulgently.

“After that, your murder was placed at the feet of the Chesapeake Ripper, who, I suspect, is quickly becoming a case of “out of sight, out of mind,” as it were.”

“The team would certainly enjoy doing something with their time that isn’t looking for you,” Will agrees. 

“Are you worried about being found, Abigail?” Hannibal asks. 

“Should I be?”

“No.”

“What would happen if I was?”

Hannibal thinks for a moment.

“Any charges that they tried to level against you could probably be lifted — or at least significantly decreased — in exchange for the home address of the Chesapeake Ripper,” Hannibal says calmly.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she says at once.

“It wouldn’t be a bad move,” Will says. “If you could give the Bureau us, they’d probably give you anything.”

“On the other hand, finding us, particularly finding that you, Will, are, in fact, a killer, would be rather  _ awkward _ for your former colleagues.”

“Let’s just not get found, okay?” Will suggests.

“That would be preferable,” Hannibal agrees.

“I just worry that someone might… I don't know. Recognize me or something,” Abigail says. Her had moves unconsciously to the scar on her throat, not yet covered by one of her customary scarves. 

“You are safe,” Hannibal says, leaning across the table to put a hand on hers. “And if you ever fear that you are not, simply tell us.”

“You can’t solve every problem with murder, you know,” she says, sounding just like any other teenager who has had enough of her overly-protective parents.

Hannibal makes a delicate face that suggests he is willing to agree to disagree on the point and Will just shakes his head.

“How about a family outing?” he suggests. 

“What did you have in mind?” Hannibal asks. 

Will blinks. He hadn’t actually had anything in mind; he’d simply wanted to steer the conversation away from bloodshed. Which, of course, Hannibal likely knew. He thinks quickly, trying to come up with something.

“I think I saw a flyer in the village for some kind of fair,” he offers.

Hannibal looks disinterested, but Abigail’s face positively lights up. It breaks Will’s heart how young she is. He knows that she is… damaged, that she is too like Hannibal to ever truly live a normal life. But he also knows that she, unlike Hannibal and himself, is at least willing to try. She wants to be happy and she wants normal things to make her happy.

“Fell family outing?” Will says. He raises his eyebrows at Hannibal. Is he really going to say no to their daughter? 

Hannibal sighs, but Will knows already that it’s a sigh of defeat. 

“Alright,” he says, “but no dogs.”

Abigail beams.

After breakfast, Will sends Hannibal upstairs to put on what he describes as “sane people clothes” while he takes care of the dogs. It takes longer than Will feels is fully reasonable to get everyone out the door, but soon they are crammed gracelessly into the cab of the truck.

“I have a car with actually seats, Will,” says Hannibal dispassionately.

“Play the part, dear,” Will sing-songs back.

Abigail laughs. 

The fair turns out to be a sort of spring festival. Really, it seems to Will like a slightly jazzed up version of the farmers’ market he’d seen before, but everyone is laughing and excited. There’s food to buy and little games to play and children running everywhere. It seems the whole village has turned out for the festivities. 

Will soon finds himself in the bizarre situation of knowing more people than Hannibal does. Fortunately, he can still make Hannibal and his fluent Italian do most of the talking. They wander the little stalls, eating pastries and taking in the atmosphere.

“Francis!” calls an excited voice.

Will turns and sees Aurora waving to him from her stall. Beside him, Hannibal turns as well and Will can sense bloodlust and something that seems remarkably like jealousy rolling off of him like heat.

“Don’t even think about it,” he hisses. “She’s the reason you have that garden.” He wraps an arm around Hannibal’s waist and steers him over to Aurora’s stall.

“Aurora,” he says, smiling. “This is my husband, Roman, and our daughter, Andrea. This is Aurora; she sold me the seedlings for the garden.”

Pleasantries are exchanged and it seems almost disturbingly normal.

“But where is Winston?” she asks.

“Oh, he stayed at home with the others,” Will says.

“Others?”

“We have seven,” says Abigail, helpfully.

“Eight,” Hannibal corrects her with a long-suffering note to his tone.

“Wow,” says Aurora laughing. “Quite a family.”

“You must come meet them sometime,” Hannibal says, smiling like a shark. “Dinner, perhaps?”

“Roman,” Will says, smiling as well as he digs his fingers into Hannibal’s side as hard as he can. “Not everyone wants to hear you talk about Dante all night long.”

“I would love to meet the rest of your family,” Aurora says pleasantly. 

“ _ E ci piacerebbe avere te _ ,” Hannibal says graciously.

Aurora laughs in delight. 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at her.

“ _ Scusa. Il tuo accento è bello, ma suona come mio nonno _ ,” she says.

“I suppose I learned in a different time.”

Will and Abigail look at each other and shrug.

“Well,” Aurora says, “Don’t let me keep you. Enjoy the festival!”

“You as well.”

“I’ll see you around, Francis. And it was lovely to meet the rest of you.”

They bid each other farewell and wander away again.

The day is bright and warm and Will can feel something from Abigail that has been so unusual in his life that it takes him a minute to identify it. She is happy. She is content and joyful, young and carefree, full of energy and a pure enthusiasm for life. She is brimming with pride when she hands around little cups of gelato that she’d ordered by herself in her budding Italian. Will glances at Hannibal and sees he that he feel it too. Will wishes he knew how to set her free from them before they destroy her the way her father wanted to.

❈❈❈

Hannibal insists on driving his car to drop Abigail off at the train station and Will goes with them. They sit in silence on the drive back, Will watching the rolling countryside, until Hannibal speaks.

“We’re losing her,” he says.

“You mean she’s becoming less like you.”

“Less like us, yes.”

Will lets out a long breath.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.

“It depends on how you view parenthood, I suppose. Many people want their children to be like them; it’s natural.”

“You know how I feel about it,” Will says coolly.

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hannibal drives in silence for long enough that Will thinks he might not answer.

“Nothing,” he says at last.

“Really?” Will asks skeptically. 

“For all that you’ve given me, you’ve asked for very little in return,” he says, eyes not leaving the road. “I can give you this.”

Will frowns. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Hannibal; it’s that he has no idea what he’s talking about. It’s so easy to forget just how insane Hannibal truly is.

“Understanding, Will,” he says, answering the unspoken question. “And so much more.”

Will wants to answer, wants to say what Hannibal means to him, but he cannot articulate those feelings in his own mind, let alone aloud. After a moment of struggle, he reaches out and gently lays a hand on Hannibal’s leg.

Hannibal glances over at him, a slight frown deepening the lines on his face, but says nothing.

When they arrive at the farm, Hannibal is immediately in motion and not in the kitchen as is his usual pattern. Will frowns slightly, watching Hannibal move quickly around the house, collecting his things that have strayed over the weekend.

“You’re leaving?” Will asks.

“Things to attend to in Florence,” Hannibal replies briskly.

Will raises an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing too interesting, I assure you,” he says with that shark’s smile.

Will shakes his head and turns his attention to the dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my translation is good, they should say...  
> Hannibal: And we'd love to have you.  
> Aurora: Sorry. Your accent is beautiful, but it sounds like my grandfather.
> 
> Also, posting two chapters back-to-back because I'm going on vacation tomorrow!


	12. Chapter 12

It’s Tuesday when the phone rings.

“What is it?” Will asks without preamble.

“Francis, darling.” The voice is pleasant and languid and not quite Hannibal’s. Roman Fell, then.

“Yes?” Will asks. He wonders if Hannibal is at work or if there is someone else in the flat with him. As unsettlingly odd as it would be for Hannibal to call him from the Caponi, he dislikes the idea of a stranger in the flat with Hannibal even more.

“I’m planning a little dinner party and I was hoping you could come into town and help me prepare.”

Will has to fight to keep his voice light and steady.

“Who are we inviting?” he asks.

“Oh, Senior Slater and a few of my colleagues, I think.”

“How lovely.”

“Yes,” Hannibal — Roman — agrees. “Take the train, Francis; parking in the city is impossible.”

“Of course.”

“Can you be here by this evening?”

Will has never heard Hannibal make a request like that before. His tone is gentle and earnestly polite, as if Will is perfectly welcome to give any answer he pleases. Will knows, however, that this is not the case.

“If you like,” he answers, casually. 

“Excellent.” He can hear Hannibal’s smile, but it’s not his usual one; this smile is far more human. “Till this evening then, my love.” And he hangs up.

Will stares at the handset for a long moment, the feral excitement for their meeting with “Senior” Slater suddenly eclipsed by hearing those words from Hannibal’s lips. But, of course, it hadn’t been Hannibal, he tells himself, and he hadn’t been talking to Will. It had been Roman talking to his husband, Francis. It was different. It wasn’t real.

He gives his head and little shake and sets about gathering the things he will need. He trusts Hannibal will have procured whatever he will be wearing to the party so he packs his usual clothes and a few of his least-favorite shirts. He’s ready in under ten minutes.

Then he looks around at the pack, wagging hopefully at his feet.

“Damnit,” Will mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Most of the dogs are fine to free-feed and come and go out an open door without getting into trouble. Will is a good trainer and the pack is well-manner. With one exception. Will silently curses Hannibal’s name as he glares down at the wriggling ball of fluff that is Dante. There’s really only one thing for it. And if Hannibal doesn’t like it, well, he’s the one who brought Will a puppy in the first place. 

❈❈❈

Will kicks gently at the bottom of the door to the flat as his hands are rather full. Hannibal opens it, still in his suit, and freezes. His face is holding Roman’s expression, but there’s nothing behind it. He stares at Will with a warm smile and empty eyes. Will smirks to see him so thrown off balance. 

“What,” Hannibal says at last.

“If you didn’t want me to take care of a puppy, you shouldn’t have given me a puppy,” says Will lightly, brushing past Hannibal with his duffle over one shoulder and Dante wiggling in his arms. Hannibal stares after him for a moment and then closes the door.

“What are you planning to do with him here?” 

“Not much,” Will says, shrugging. 

He heads towards his room in the flat, Hannibal still trailing behind him. He closes the door as Hannibal reaches it and sets Dante down. He unpacks the pup’s things and gets him settled before going to find Hannibal.

“You know,” Will says, watching Hannibal sipping his red wine in the immaculate kitchen. “For a genius serial killer, you’re very predictable.”

Hannibal does not grace this comment with a reply and instead ignores Will with cool dignity. 

Will enjoys it for a moment and then sighs. 

“Alright,” he says. “What’s the plan?” 

Hannibal continues ignoring him.

“The silent treatment? Seriously?”

Hannibal sets down his wine gently, but Will can see the tension in his body even through all the layers of plaid.

“Will,” he says, turning to look Will in the face at last. “I ask very little and tolerate much, but I cannot tolerate you treating this like another one of your “family outings” nor will I tolerate your dog tearing up my flat.”

Will raises his eyebrows slowly, keeping his expression utterly unimpressed even though Hannibal’s soft little rant had driven him right into Will’s face.

“First of all,” Will says, holding his ground even with Hannibal deep into his personal space, “You knew damn well that I wouldn’t let anything happen to the dogs and you knew that Dante is too young to be on his own. Second, if you think for one instant that I’m not taking this seriously, then—.” Will stops as he sees the look on Hannibal’s face. “Oh, fuck you,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Hannibal does he best to get his smirk under control. 

“I would never have expected anything else from you, my darling boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” Will gripes.

“No?”

“No.”

Hannibal shrugs and pours Will a glass of wine. They sip for a few moments, letting the silence between them become comfortable and familiar. 

“So,” Will says. “Tonight?”

“Or tomorrow,” Hannibal replies.

“You don’t have it planned out down to the moment?”

Hannibal frowns slightly. Will’s teasing was light, but it underscores his ability and the profile of Hannibal that he is still updating in his head. He knows Hannibal doesn’t like it, but he can’t help it; it’s just how his mind works.

“I thought that you might like to…” 

And, for the first Will can remember, he hears Hannibal’s voice falter. Hannibal is the single most confident person Will has ever met. It comes with the antisocial personality disorder and the god complex and the rest of his pathology. Hannibal can talk about anything from the most monstrous of crimes to the most sublime works of art with the same calm and clarity. He could recite poetry to an audience of thousands or whisper it into a lover’s ear in the throws of passion and it would all be the same to him. And yet this, this has made him stop. Will lets himself slip.

_ I have never wanted anything the way I want this. Randall Tier was one thing, but this will be different. This will be us and only us, no outside hand. Our first together. Our melding.  _ Our _ becoming. I want it to be special, to be everything he wants and more. And I want it to be beautiful. I want him to think that it is beautiful like he used to when he saw my work. I want him to reveal in it. He understands me so well, but will he feel it the way I feel it? This will be the last test. And if he fails… _

Will blinks. Hannibal stumbled to ask him how he wants to catch their prey in the same way a man might stumble over his proposal. He smiles gently at him.

“I’ve always been a fisherman,” he says. “And a damn good one. But you’re a hunter. And I think it’s time I try doing things your way.”

Hannibal smiles and Will can already picture blood on his teeth.

“I know where to find him.”

Will can hear the bloodlust in Hannibal’s voice and it’s contagious and he is smiling back and there is copper on his tongue and his mind is whirling down, down to that place of silence and darkness and calm. Will’s body processes it the only way it knows how without killing Hannibal then and there.

“Do we need to do any kind of… prep work?” It’s already hard to focus on anything other than exactly what he wants.

“I have everything we need.”

“Then we have some time to kill,” Will says, voice husky and low.

“You could say that,” Hannibal replies, a smirk curling his lips.

It’s all the “yes” Will needs and a moment later he has Hannibal pressed to the stainless steel of the refrigerator and is kissing him like he might still kill him regardless. 

It’s hard and rough and hot. Bites and scratches go back and forth. Hair is pulled and chests are pushed. Fingers dig into arms and heads slam into cabinets. It’s a struggle for dominance that Will knowns he will not win, doesn’t want to win, but he cannot stop fighting. The tang of blood bursts through Will’s mouth and he isn’t sure if it’s his or Hannibal’s. He’s gasping for breath, but Hannibal is unrelenting and Will cannot bring himself to surrender. He wants this, wants it so badly it’s blinding. 

Their struggle slams one of Will’s knees into something and he loses his balance, pulling Hannibal down with him. Once again, Will finds himself on the kitchen floor with Hannibal smiling down at him like a monster. Will realizes that he is laughing. Joy and lust and pain and murder all rolled together in his mind and bubbling out of him. Hannibal’s smile only grows and Will pulls him down by the shoulders so he can kiss the expression right of his face.

Eventually, Hannibal pulls away, breathless and flushed.

“We’re going to waste all our energy,” he pants. “We have a late night ahead of us.”

Will rolls his eyes.

“I think I can manage.”

“Ah, the energy of youth.”

Will nips at Hannibal’s lip.

“You’re not even ten years old than me.”

“Semantics,” he says, somehow managing that elegant shrug despite the fact that his braced over Will with both arms.

Will is about the lung for him, but Hannibal is suddenly on his feet, tugging his clothes back into place as if he’d simply knelt to tie his shoe. Will groans in frustration as he watches Hannibal move away, leaving him flat on his back without relief.

“We’ll leave a bit past nine,” Hannibal says, voice cool and even. “Be ready by quarter of, if you don’t mind.”

“What do I need to do?” Will asks from the floor.

Hannibal glances down at him. He must look a mess — and a debauched mess at that.

“Start with a shower,” he says. “I’d suggest a cold one. I will make us a light meal.”

Will rolls onto his side and pushes himself upright again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to go shopping on an empty stomach.”

Hannibal starts ignoring him again.

❈❈❈

Will follows Hannibal’s advice and takes a very cold shower. Afterwards, he gets dressed in jeans and a t-shirt he doesn’t much care for, hoping that Hannibal isn’t setting a dress code for the evening. He takes Dante out, feeds him, takes him out again, and then makes him a little nest of towels and blankets in the bathroom. He leaves him a bowl of water and promises to take him out once more before they leave.

When he returns to the kitchen, there is a sandwich and salad waiting for him. They are both, of course, deceptive in their simplicity and sublime in their taste. Will has just finished eating when Hannibal reappears. He is dressed not dissimilarly to Will. 

“Not going somewhere fancy, I take it.”

“No. Ready?”

“I just want to take Dante out one more time.”

Hannibal nods and Will attends to the pup. He has to wake the little guy up to take him outside; apparently, he’d worn himself with the excitement of travel. Will walks him up and down the block and then settles him back in the bathroom. He glances around the bedroom, feeling that he shouldn’t be leaving the flat empty handed, but there is nothing there that might belong at a crime scene.

Hannibal is waiting for him at the front door, a duffel bag over his shoulder. He nods to Will and Will nods back. It’s time.

❈❈❈

Half an hour later, they are parked behind an old roadside motel outside of the city. Will’s never seen it before as it’s on the far side of Florence from the farm, but Hannibal is confident in his movements. From where they are parked, only someone sticking their head out of one of the frosted bathroom windows could see them from inside and the night is still around them. Hannibal gets out of the car and opens the bag. He produces two bundles of clear plastic that turn out to be jumpsuits.

“Seriously?” Will asks.

“I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t want to be caught.”

Will rolls his eyes, but steps into the ridiculous plastic thing.

“I feel like Patrick Bateman,” he mutters.

“That was a raincoat,” Hannibal replies absently and Will has to take a moment to absorb the fact that Hannibal is familiar with  _ American Psycho _ .

They put on gloves and Hannibal hands the bag off to Will before leading the way around one end of the building.

“He took the room on the end,” Hannibal breathes to Will as the stand in the shadows.

“Subtle.”

Hannibal lets out a soft puff of air that Will knows is accompanying a smirk. 

“No cameras?” he asks.

“No.”

Will nods.

“Would you like to go first?” Hannibal asks.

“Yes,” Will says, the word slipping out of his mouth like a prayer.

They turn the corner carefully, but there is no one outside in front of the building, just a few dim lights illuminating locked doors and closed curtains. Will steps up to the closest door. It’s paint is faded, but the slightly crooked number has been polished and catches the light. Will takes a moment to think of the owner and hope that a grisly murder will bring in the money of looky-loos and not drive the place under. He glances at Hannibal, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod, and knocks on the door.

Nothing happens.

Tension is singing through Will’s body and it takes a force of will not to immediately start pounding on the door. He manages to wait what he hopes is a reasonable human amount of time and knocks again.

From inside, he hears movement and an indistinct shout. It seems Slater had been asleep. Will knocks again.

He hears the man call something else that he can’t quite understand, but the tone suggests that he’s going to open the door rather than shouting at them to leave.

He shoots another look at Hannibal. Were he an international fugitive (which, of course, he more or less is), he would not open his door to an unknown caller in the middle of the night. This man, it seems, is an idiot. Will hears the lock click and the door opens a crack. Well, not a complete idiot. The door chain stretches past the man’s unshaven face.

“ _ Qu'est-ce que tu veux _ ?” he asks.

“ _ Nous voulons vous tuer _ ,” Hannibal replies from over Will’s shoulder.

The man blanches and he tries to slam the door, but Will already has a work boot jammed into the gap. After a few futile pushes, the man scrambles back from the door and out of sight, but Will knows there’s nowhere for him to run. He hears a door slam open and closed and he shakes his head. The bathroom window is tiny and all he’s doing is giving Will and Hannibal time to get inside. What is Slater going to do; call the police?

Hannibal hands Will a length of string and Will ties a small loop at one end. He wriggles his fingers through the gap and slips the loop over the chain. The other end of the string goes over the top of the door and then he closes it. Will takes a moment to enjoy the idea of Slater, huddled in the bathroom, suddenly flooded with hope as he hears the door close. He catches Hannibal’s eye and knows that they are sharing the vision. It only takes a few tugs on the string before they hear the chain fall loose.

They walk inside through the unlocked door.

The motel room is dim and dingy, worn carpet and bedspread, but clean save for what little mess their quarry has left, a few food wrappers and drink cans, a t-shirt and a pair of grimy socks. The bathroom door is closed and, in the quiet of the night, they can hear Slater’s rapid breath coming from behind the door. Will barely has to close his eyes for more than a blink to picture it perfectly. 

_ Slater’s face is a featureless twist of fear and panic. He sits with his knees up and his back braced against the door, hands flat on the floor and arms shaking. He is trying to keep his breathing quiet; when he’d heard the motel room door open he had slapped one palm to his mouth, but knows now that his best hope is to keep the door at this back shut. His heart is racing and he knows, somewhere deep inside, that this is the end. _

Hannibal closes and locks the door before gesturing towards the bathroom in a silent invitation for Will to go first. Will sets the bag down on the bed and takes a moment to open it and select a sheathed hunting knife, which he sticks in his back pocket. Then he walks to the bathroom at a casual pace. He might not have all the time in the world, but he certainly has all the time he requires; no need to rush. He takes a moment to examine the bathroom door. It’s cheaply made, most likely hollow, and has a simple pinhole privacy lock. Will judges distance, braces himself on his left leg, and drives his right heel into the door just beside the handle.

It doesn’t fly open dramatically, but it probably would have if Slater had not been braced against it. They hear him cry out, a wordless, frightened grunt of surprise, as the door cracks. Will glances at Hannibal and, in wordless unison, they put their shoulders to the door and push. Slater is heavy, but Will and Hannibal are strong and Will soon has his boot wedged in the doorway. It’s easy from there.

They corner him in the small bathroom. He’s shouting and blubbering and probably begging, but Will doesn’t hear words, only the rise and fall of sound. He does hear his own heart and blood. He hears his steady breathing, in sync with Hannibal’s. He hears their footsteps on the tile floor as they each grab an arm and slam the man into the wall. He hears the crack of bone against tile. 

They hadn’t made a plan and yet they work in perfect harmony. Even in the tight quarters of the bathroom, they beat Slater down without a misstep. Will brings a knee into his stomach. Hannibal follows up with a blow to his spine. Will catches him by the hair as he goes reeling and jerks him backwards, leaving the throat exposed to Hannibal’s waiting fingers. Hannibal pins him to the wall by the throat. He’s too big a man to be lifted off his feet, but he’s struggling and losing.

Will pulls the knife free from its sheath. He takes a moment to meet Hannibal’s eyes and is rewarded with permission to do as he wants. Will finds the man’s face, twisted with fear and pain, and feels nothing but anticipation and satisfaction. His mind does not extend beyond this room, this moment, and it is ecstasy. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, feel his excitement and longing. He leans into those feelings, away from Slater’s animalistic panic. Hannibal might want blood, but not the way a wolf wants it. Hannibal’s bloodlust is sophisticated in a way he cannot explain and, tonight at least, it is changed and refocused through Will. It feels incredible. 

Will drives the knife into the man’s stomach, just above his belt and yanks it up until he hits the bottom on the sternum. It feels surprisingly easy, but perhaps it’s just the strength of adrenaline. He hears the slip of flesh, the cry of the flesh’s owner, and another sound. He hears a soft intake of breath from Hannibal. Not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but with all the implications of both.

Hannibal steps back and allows the man to fall. The body slides down the wall, landing in a lopsided and slouched sit, like a doll tossed into a corner. Will can see yellow fat and pink viscera and red blood. He and Hannibal stand in silence and watch the man twitch and whimper on the ground. It’s a sorry sight and Will takes not pleasure in witnessing it. After a moment, he squats down over the man, who lets out a painful breath that might be carrying the word “why,” though Will isn’t sure. What he is sure of is that he’s had enough of this part. In one swift motion, he brings the knife across the throat, from carotid to jaguar. Blood sprays across his face, but he doesn’t flinch. He simply watches as the arterial spurts become weaker and weaker as the heart begins to fail. 

At last, it is nothing but a trickle, a draining.

Will stands slowly, blood still hot on his skin and sticky on his clothes. It’s cramped in the bathroom, but they stand there, separated by the remains of a life.

Will looks at Hannibal and their eyes meet over the body. They are both breathless. Will hadn’t realized he was panting hard until now. He knows too, in some corner of his mind, that this is off-profile for the Ripper. Hannibal should be utterly calm and composed. But he can hear the other man’s breathing just as rapid as his own and he can see passion dancing in his eyes. The stench of blood is heavy in the air and Will’s mind accepts nothing outside of this room. There is only what his five senses can find for him to interpret. He feels like he’s soaring, his body at amazing heights while his mind stays perfectly still and calm in the bloody depths. This is the best he’s ever felt, he thinks.

Hannibal is staring at him. He isn’t smiling, but his expression is breathtakingly open and honest. He looks struck, almost stunned, like a man beholding true art for the first time in his life. Hannibal has often stared at Will, drinking him in with the detached passion of a vampire. This is different. When he speaks, his voice is soft as prayer.

“If I saw you everyday, forever, I would remember this time.” 

Will can feel his heartbeat starting to slow. He knows what he wants and it takes only a moment for his mind to calculate how to get it. He steps forward, but there isn’t room for him to join Hannibal on the other side of the body and he is forced to stand with one foot on Hannibal’s side and the other between Slater’s legs. It will do and that’s all he needs. He is in front of Hannibal and he is grabbing him hard and he is kissing him harder and their bodies are pressed together and nothing else matters.

_ No _ , he thinks.  _ This is the best I’ve ever felt. _

“You are stunning, Will Graham,” Hannibal whispers.

Will tugs at Hannibal, bloody gloves slipping on the stupid plastic suit. He ignores the indulgence in Hannibal’s smile as he drags him out of the bathroom and towards the bed. Will presses his palms to Hannibal’s chest. He wants this, wants it more badly that he can fully comprehend, and he can see that Hannibal wants it too — can  _ feel _ it. Will shoves at Hannibal, but he manages to catch himself before he tumbles backwards onto the cheap mattress. 

“I’m not going to fuck you at a crime scene.”

Will can’t even bother to feel embarrassed at the sound that pushes its way out of his throat. He knows Hannibal is right, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Come,” Hannibal says. “We still have work to do.”

Hannibal leads the way back to the bathroom door and they stand there, looking down at the blood and body.

“How should we…?” Will asks, suddenly feeling a little uncertain. Hannibal’s work has been so beautiful and he fixes boat motors. 

“It's your becoming, Will. How do you feel?”

“ _ Our _ becoming,” he corrects. 

Hannibal nods his assent, but still waits for Will to answer the question. Will considers. 

“New, but raw. Like I've shed my skin.”

Hannibal leaves his side for a moment and Will can hear him rummaging in the bag.

“Well then,” he says and offers offers Will a knife. 

Will frowns at the blade. He’s fairly sure it’s the sort hunters use to skin their kills.

“Little cliché don't you think?” he asks. 

“Not if you're creative with it.”

Will thinks again, but the vision comes to him quickly.

“Here?” he asks.

Hannibal nods.

“You’ll need the light. We can move him later if you like.”

Will starts from the first incision he’d made and peels from there. It turns out to be a remarkably tedious task, but the feeling of Hannibal's gaze on him, lustful yet proud, spurs him on. Will’s knees ache against the tile as he slowly works the skin off of Slater’s body, revealing all the horror and divinity inside. The human body is a truly remarkable machine and Will lays it bare. 

At last, bloody and tired, he leans away from the body. The skin is limp around the waist, hanging loose like a discarded garment. He understands his work, can see its future. He knows it will please Hannibal in the end. He considers the legs. These, he knows, are not part of his design. He looks to Hannibal, who seems to understand and rises from the seat he had taken outside the bathroom door. He returns with a gigli saw, uncoiling its long wire.

“May I?” he asks, breaking their long silence.

Will nods and steps away from the body.

Hannibal moves in and begins to saw through the legs. The cuts are clean and even and Will knows that they would allow for seamless reattachment of the limbs in some other world where their patient was not dead. Hannibal takes a moment to gently sift through the viscera and select a few organs.

“Anything else?” he asks Will.

“Not here. I want to move him.”

Hannibal nods.

“Wait here,” he says.

Will waits.

Hannibal returns from the car with a cooler and a tarp. Will continues to wait while he packs away the organs and meat that he wants and then, together, they roll the rest of the body onto the tarp. They move in perfect, unplanned unity. Hannibal checks that they have left nothing behind but blood and they leave the motel room. Will spots the key and pauses to grab it. After they have their prize outside, he locks the door and tucks the key up on top of the doorframe. 

They move in silence through the woods, the body supported between them on the tarp. They walk for a long time until Will realizes that they have found their destination.

“Here,” he says and they stop.

Together, they bring Will’s vision to life.

Will doesn’t tell Hannibal what he wants, but rather makes simple requests. Position a limb here, take this unwanted piece away for nature to reclaim. 

The golden light of dawn has reached them by the time Will stands back to behold his creation,  _ his _ design.

In a clearing in the woods, under a gnarled tree, Purcell Slater burst forth from the earth. He appears buried up to his hips, a wave of leaves and dirt breaking around him as if he is surfacing from deep water. His skin is pooled around him as he breaks free from it as well. His head is upturned, exposed muscle and sinew seeking the kiss of the morning sun. One hand seems to push him up from the earth while the other reaches upward, seeking the next handhold to pull himself to freedom. His mouth is stretched wide as if screaming, but instead of sound it is filled with his own heart.

Fishing line suspends the body from the twisted branches above it and Hannibal had, of course, known all the tricks to posing a body with wires and supports. From behind, a large branch is visible, driven into the ground and holding some of the weight of the torso, but from the front it is glorious. 

Will’s only regret is that by the time Slater is seen again by human eyes nature will have destroyed almost all of their work.

He stands beside Hannibal, free at long last from the plastic suits and gloves, though Hannibal had insisted that they keep the booties. For a long moment they simply stand in silence, gazing upon what Will has wrought. 

“It’s beautiful, Will,” Hannibal says softly. “It’s art.”

Will knows.

“It really does look black in the moonlight,” he says quietly, looking at the places where the blood has pooled.

“What are you feeling?”

Will thinks for a moment.

“Tired,” he begins with a laugh. “Almost like I’m in shock. Everything seems distant, but clear at the same time. It’s there, but it doesn’t matter. Only this matters.”

Hannibal smiles.

“My mind is…” Will considers, “present. And all me, I think.” He turns to look at Hannibal. “Unless it’s all you.”

“Flattering as that might be, you will always be your own creation, Will. I simply opened a window and let in some light.”

Will laughs. He knows, distantly, that he should be furious with Hannibal. He should have killed him long ago or, at the very least, made sure he spent the rest of his days behind bars. Piece by piece, Hannibal had destroyed his life. Not only that, but he had destroyed Will’s very mind. He had nearly died simply because Hannibal had wanted to find out what would happen. And yet that knowledge is far away with the rest of the world and it too does not matter. He feels peaceful, like he’d spent the night in deep meditation and is only now coming back to himself.

“It feels wrong to just walk away,” he says.

“That’s all you can do with art,” Hannibal replies. “You create it, you make it the best you possibly can, you love it. And then you let it go. You send it into the world and it is no longer yours.”

“Is that how you see me?” Will asks quietly.

Hannibal doesn’t reply for long enough that Will thinks the conversation is over. He is about to turn away and start trying to find his way back to the car, when Hannibal’s voice stops him.

“I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

Will holds very still, waiting to see if Hannibal will say more. Because what he said sounded an awful lot like a yes. And if it had been a yes that would mean that one day Hannibal would send him away, free and alone, for the world to make of him what it would. And he knows that he is a piece of art with a very limited audience. 

“Hannibal—,” he begins, but he is cut off.

“We must leave.” His voice is all business and formality as he turns back towards the distant motel.

“Hannibal, wait.” Will hurries to catch up with Hannibal’s longer strides. “Damnit!”

Hannibal does pause then and looks back at Will.

“Yes?”

“You can’t  _ do _ that.”

“Do what?”

“Say cryptic bullshit about what you… what you intended to do with me and then walk away,” Will says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

“I intend to see you live your life.”

“With you?” he presses.

“Until that is no longer the life you need.”

“And you get to decide that?” Will demands. 

He has reached Hannibal now, is standing closer to him than is strictly polite. Hannibal raises a hand slowly and lays it on Will’s check.

“My Will,” he murmurs. “We will both know when that time has come.”

Will stares into Hannibal’s eyes, seeking a lie or deception, but finds none. He nods.

“Are you ready to go home?” Hannibal asks.

Will looks back at what he has created in the woods for a moment and then turns his eyes back to Hannibal, to his future. Whatever twisted path had brought him here, this is his life now, a life that he designed, consciously or not, in partnership with Hannibal. And it is a life, he's beginning to suspect, that might actually have room for him to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my Google translate did me well, they say…  
> Slater: What do you want?  
> Hannibal: We want to kill you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went ahead and bumped the rating up to mature. I wouldn’t say this chapter is more graphic than the last, but, between the two, it seemed like the right call.

Back at the flat, Hannibal makes them breakfast. After a shower and a walk with Dante, Will joins him in the kitchen and watches him lazily, too tired to pay proper attention. He doesn’t really realize that he’s been staring until Hannibal manages to catch his eye. Will feels himself flush slightly and he looks away quickly. Staring at Hannibal Lecter in a dreamy haze is not ever something he thought he’d be doing. And yet, here he is.

Hannibal sets down two plates of what looks a lot like steak and eggs, but Will suspects is not. There are crispy home fries on the side and, of course, utterly unnecessary garnish.

Will has a bite almost to his mouth when he realizes that he should probably ask.

“Is this, uh, fresh?”

“Very.”

Will nods and begins to eat, too tired to care.

“You look like you’re going to collapse into your plate,” Hannibal observes after Will has had some time to eat.

“I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in a while.”

“Take a nap after breakfast, but set an alarm,” Hannibal tells him. “I’ll need your help getting ready for dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“The dinner party,” Hannibal prompts.

“Oh. That’s a real thing,” Will says stupidly.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Will wants badly to sleep, but he doesn’t want to have a dinner party. He wants to lounge in bed with Hannibal, dozing and fucking and maybe later on drinking wine. He doesn’t want to share Hannibal’s attentions with a bunch of  _ them _ — those who do not operate on Will and Hannibal’s level. 

“Is it tonight?” he asks.

“Tomorrow,” Hannibal tells him. “But there is much to do.”

Will sighs and gets up.

“Don’t look so petulant,” Hannibal chides.

“Don’t make me share you,” Will shoots back.

He’s out of the room before Hannibal can reply, but he does manage to catch Hannibal’s surprised yet pleased expression.

❈❈❈

Will doesn’t set an alarm because he doesn’t want to and Hannibal can deal with it so it is not a blaring sound that wakes him. It is a shift in the mattress too heavy to be attributed to Dante. Before he’s fully pulled himself from sleep, he feels something warm and firm pressing along his back. He sighs happily and arches into Hannibal’s body.

Hannibal hushes him gently, running a hand along Will’s side. Will starts to turn into the touch, but Hannibal presses down and Will stills. He lies on his side, facing away from Hannibal, vulnerable and exposed and safe. Hannibal slowly pulls the blankets from him, working his way down Will’s body like he might never see it again. Freshly exposed skin is kissed and bitten and tasted. Will shivers, but stays still.

“You did so marvelously, Will. Seeing you work like that was… breathtaking. I fear I offered very little by way of assistance, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” Hannibal speaks into Will’s hip, breath whispering across his stomach. Will wants nothing more than to roll over to meet Hannibal’s lips with his body, but he knows he shouldn’t — mustn’t — give into that temptation.

It isn’t easy, Hannibal makes sure of that. His attentions wander up and down Will’s thigh, a dance of frustration and pleasure. At last, his mouth closes around Will’s hip and Will can’t stop the moan as Hannibal bites and sucks a bruise into his skin.

“I should do that where everyone could see,” he murmurs into Will’s flesh. “Then there would not be more unpleasant confusion.” He stresses the last word delicately, but Will’s mind is far too preoccupied to give it much thought.

Hannibal returns mercilessly to Will’s hip, occasionally soothing the skin between bites and sucks with gentle touches of his tongue. Will has just managed to get his vocal cords under control when Hannibal sinks his teeth into Will’s side just above his hip bone. Will cries out, a high yelp of pain and shock. He squirms around at last, twisting to try to see what Hannibal has done to him.

What he sees is Hannibal slowly licking the blood oozing from the bite mark in his side.

“That can’t possibly be hygienic,” Will croaks.

“Shall I stop?”

There’s blood on his teeth and he smiles and Will thinks he's going to explode.

“Will?” Hannibal prompts.

Will manages a strangled “no” and is rewarded with that smiles again.

Hannibal runs his tongue over the wound he has inflicted and gently rolls Will onto his back. Will lets him do it, pliant to Hannibal’s touch. Hannibal continues his agonizingly slow exploration of Will’s body, teasing him ruthlessly until Will is arching off the bed, groaning nonsense under his breath. 

“Patience,” Hannibal murmurs.

“Fuck that,” Will gasps, making a mad grope for Hannibal’s hair. 

Hannibal’s mouth is off him in an instant and his fingers close around Will’s wrist. Will whimpers in frustration and tugs back, but Hannibal’s grip is like iron and all he gets for his troubles are short nails biting into his skin. 

“Hannibal,” Will says, voice hoarse from restraint.

“Yes?” Hannibal asks like he isn’t about to make Will's wrist bleed, like he isn’t braced over Will’s naked body. 

Will doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t understand what the rules are between them. One day, he thinks, he will, but one instance does not set much of a precedent. He searches Hannibal’s face, gaze moving quickly over all the small tells that allow him to do what he does. He needs to understand what Hannibal wants from him in this moment. He closes his eyes and lets—.

“Don’t.” Hannibal's voice is sharp and accompanied by sharper pain in Will’s wrist.

Will’s eyes fly open at once. It is shocking how quickly Hannibal had understood what he was about to do. He searches Hannibal’s face again, momentarily frightened that he’s losing his ability to read Hannibal. 

Hannibal sees the flash of panic in Will’s eyes and shifts his body up the bed so he can put a hand on Will’s face. The touch is grounding and Will finds himself leaning into it.

“Breathe, Will,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to do that to know me. Not anymore.”

Will takes a deep breath and makes himself relax. He looks into Hannibal’s face, so much closer now, and lets himself accept what he finds there.

“You don’t have to,” he says after a moment, a soft note of wonder in his voice.

“But,” Hannibal says, urging him onward.

“But you want to,” Will finishes.

“Will you let me?”

Will blinks in surprise and feels himself flushing a little. He had thought that the answer to that question was fairly obvious, especially given the way his body is on full display for Hannibal to read.

“I, uh—. Yes, I mean—. Yes,” he stammers awkwardly.

Hannibal smiles at him again, though it is a bit gentler now.

“I will always ask you,” he says, “And I expect you to do the same.”

“Of course.”

“Even I have lines, Will.”

“I know.” And he does.

Hannibal nods slightly and begins to slide back down Will’s body.

Will supposes he doesn’t have much of a frame of reference when it comes to sexual prowess, but it seems to him that Hannibal is really damn good. Will’s no virgin, of course, but, before Hannibal, it had been a long time and even longer if you only counted sober, meaningful encounters. Now, he lets his head fall back and his eyes close as he loses himself in the sensation of Hannibal’s mouth. It doesn’t still his mind the way the killing had, but it’s pretty close.

He has to be crazy, that’s the only explanation. No sane man would let Hannibal Lecter, the serial killer, the fucking  _ cannibal _ , put his mouth there. Not fleeing is one thing, but willingly letting this happen…

Hannibal scrapes his teeth along Will's cock and Will can’t think anymore.

After he starts to become vaguely used to the feeling, he manages to lift his head to look at Hannibal. Adding this new level of experience is nearly more than Will can take. He can’t see his full expression, but Hannibal looks transported. Maybe it’s the show of trust or maybe it’s Will’s vulnerability — or maybe he just likes having Will’s dick in his mouth — but Hannibal is clearly enjoying the experience. He’s finding the things that Will reacts to most, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pleasure whenever he draws some new sound from Will’s throat. For his part, Will clutches at the sheets beneath him and lets his head drop again, allowing the feeling of Hannibal’s mouth on him become his whole world.

Will isn’t sure when his mindless sounds turn into desperate pleading. He doesn’t know who Hannibal’s been blowing to get this good, but he sure as hell knows how to keep Will just on the edge. 

“Fuck, Hannibal, please.  _ Please _ .”

His begging only seems to make Hannibal want more and he starts to back off just enough to leave Will in a torment of pleasure with no relief in sight.

“You fucking sadist,” Will pants.

“Not enjoying yourself?” Hannibal murmurs, breath moving agonizingly across Will’s skin.

“Oh fuck you,” Will tries to say, but the last word is lost in another moan as Hannibal licks slowly up the underside of his cock.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says into the “v” of Will’s hip.

Will can’t help but gasp at the mere suggestion.

Hannibal hums into Will’s skin as if taking a mental note for later. 

“You know,” he says causally, “I really should be getting ready. Or at least letting us rest.”

“Don’t you dare,” Will hisses, managing to let go of the sheets at last. 

He tangles the fingers of one hand into Hannibal’s hair, not forcing him down, but keeping him from straying too far. His other hand scrambles desperately for purchase on Hannibal’s skin, but he can’t quite reach. One of Hannibal’s hands comes up and pins Will’s wrist to the mattress by his hip and Will feels a spasm of pleasure shoot through his body. He’s close; he’s so very, very close and all he can do is hope and beg for Hannibal to grant him release.

“God, please,” he mutters, hips stuttering up to meet Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal’s free hand moves to Will’s hip, pressing down with what feels like a considerable portion of his weight.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ …” Will’s voice is becoming embarrassingly high, but he can't help it, cannot even begin to care. His world begins and ends with Hannibal Lecter.

Will comes with an unintelligible stream of curses and Hannibal works him through it like there’s nothing else he’d enjoy more in the world. He pushes Will past the point of pleasure and by the time he moves back up his body, Will is whimpering from the pain of overstimulation. 

Will lies with his eyes shut, breathing heavily and waiting for his heart rate to come back down to normal. He can feel Hannibal moving, but just lies still. He thinks Hannibal might kiss him — or at the very least ask him to reciprocate, something he is more than willing to do — but he feels the mattress shift as Hannibal gets up.

“The fuck?” he mutters, brain too awash in the aftermath to come up with anything more coherent.

“As I said,” Hannibal replies, sounding totally unfazed by what he’d just done, “things to do.”

Will rolls over and groans loudly into the pillow. Leave it to Hannibal.

“Perhaps you will come and make yourself useful after you’ve freshened up.”

Will isn’t sure if that’s a request for his abilities as a sous chef or a sexual partner, but he’ll take either one. He hears Hannibal moving around and thinks he must be leaving. Will decides to allow himself to lie there for a few minutes longer before getting up, but suddenly there’s a sharp, stinging pain running down his back. Will twists around, but not before Hannibal has managed to scratch Will from neck to ass with his nails.

“Twenty minutes,” he says and leaves.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal does gorgeous things with the meat and organs they’d brought back from the motel. Simply watching him cook has become erotic for Will and he always feels a tingle of pleasure whenever Hannibal tells him to do something in the kitchen.

It’s been months since Hannibal has thrown one of his truly lavish parties and the preparation is intense. For the most part, Will stays out of the way and tries to keep the dishes from piling up. Hannibal is in a world of his own, forming delicate flowers from rough vegetables and transforming piles of raw elements into decadent dishes. Will most enjoys watching him work with the meat. Under Hannibal’s hand, a life worse than wasted becomes art that will nourish the bodies and souls of others who may lead lives that add to the beauty of the world rather than destroying it. 

Trays of elegant canapés bloom across the counters and tiny pasties await their time in the oven. The whole flat smells incredible and Will feels heady and half-gone as if in the aftermath of sex. He floats on the scents, coming in and out of usefulness as is required of him. Little else happens in the flat for the next twenty-four hours or so until it all suddenly stops. 

Will blinks up from his most recent round of washing to see Hannibal standing perfectly still in front of his kaleidoscope of dishes. Will watches as he stares at the food intensely for a long moment before reaching out and, with the precision of a surgeon, adjusting a single percutio rose by a few millimeters. Will dries his hands slowly and moves to stand by Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Is it ready?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies and it feels to Will as if they are standing before an alter. 

He wonders if these are their offerings to the gods or if the offerings have been brought for them.

They stand in silence for a moment, each appreciating what they’ve done and what they are about to do. Then Hannibal lets out a breath and turns to Will, eyes bright and eager in his otherwise placid face.

“And now we must become ready,” he says.

Will knows that he will not enjoy this part.

“In my closet?” he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head.

“Shower and then come to my room.”

Will narrows his eyes, but obeys.

❈❈❈

He taps on Hannibal’s door, washed and clean-shaven, with one of Hannibal’s luxurious towels secured around his hips.

“Come in, Will,” says Hannibal smoothly.

Will opens the door and steps inside. Hannibal gestures Will over to his bed where he has laid out what Will can only assume is his  _ entire  _ outfit for the evening.

“Seriously?” he asks, lifting the black trunks from the bed while making a little contact with them as possible. “Are these silk?”

“Foundation garments are important,” Hannibal tells him. “Hence the name.”

Will rolls his eyes.

“Get dressed,” Hannibal tells him and steps back, apparently to watch.

It is moments like these that aggravate Will the most. But, he supposes, it always comes down to the little things in any relationship. He pointedly turns his back to Hannibal before dropping the towel and stepping into the trunks. He keeps his mouth pressed into a tight line of annoyance and does not admit to how soft the material is or how well they fit. He manages to get to the trousers on before Hannibal can reach him, but cannot escape being helped into the shirt. 

It is crisp and white and Hannibal's hands, large and warm, smooth it perfectly over Will’s shoulders and back. Will promptly ruins all the lines by roughly tucking it in before doing up his pants and belt. He hears Hannibal let out a disgruntled breath behind him and smirks a little to himself. He can’t enjoy his moment long before Hannibal is manhandling him around, gentle yet firm, until he has the shirt smooth again and he is helping Will slip into the vest. Hannibal turns Will to face the full-length mirror in the corner and stands pressed to his back. Will follows the motions of Hannibal's long fingers in the glass as he does up the vest buttons from behind. Will corporates sullenly as Hannibal helps him shrug into the jacket. He turns Will again and begins to add the finishing touches.

Hannibal himself is, of course, already perfectly dressed. He too wears a three-piece suit, the rich fabric a subtle plaid and the tie and matching pocket square a somehow classy riot of paisleys. His hair is lightly styled and Will can smell his aftershave, a careful mix of scents that puts Will in mind of old books and wood-paneled rooms. 

Hannibal moves from Will’s clothes to his hair, pushing stray curls this way and that. He grabs a small bottle and, before Will can stop him, applies a dab of that same aftershave. Will wonders if this is supposed to mimic normal couple behavior or if it’s just Hannibal’s way of marking his territory. Hannibal frowns gently at Will with the same look Will has seen him give his drawings when he can’t quite decide if they are finished or in need of a few more details. Will does not appreciate it.

However, when Hannibal turns him around once more and he sees their reflections in the mirror, he can’t help but be impressed by what he sees. The suit is a navy that is just thinking about moving into prussian blue and the fabric has a very slight iridescence to it. The tie and pocket square match, of course, and are a gray-bordering-on-silver that shine just slightly more than the suit itself. Hannibal looms over his shoulder, thin lips curled into a smile, the perfect Lucifer. But then, is Will not his perfect Beelzebub?

“You should really let me dress you more often,” Hannibal says softly into Will’s ear.

“If you’d wanted me like this, you shouldn’t have bought me the farm.”

That answer earns Will a swift, sharp bite to the side of his neck. He jerks back and glares at Hannibal, but he’s stepping away smoothly and calmly. He hands Will a pair of dress shoes and what are most definitely silk socks.

Will has the decided feeling that it’s going to be a long evening.

❈❈❈

They have significantly more guests at this party than the last. One of Will’s tasks in preparation for the evening had been to move much of the furniture into the side rooms to make space for the extra leaves in the table and for their guests to mill around eating canapés. Will doesn’t eat the canapés. Even if Hannibal hadn't established Francis as a vegetarian, Will somehow finds it distasteful to eat the meat with others. It would be, supplies some dark part of his mind, like sharing bacon sandwiches with pigs. Instead, he sips his cocktail and tries to laugh at the appropriate moments in conversation. For all his new-found confidence, Will is still terrible at small-talk.

“Will we be eating anything from your farm tonight, Francis?” asks a woman whose name Will has already forgotten.

“Just some of the herbs, I’m afraid,” Will replies with a self-deprecating little smile. “There wasn’t much time to plant this year, but I think next season should go well.” He wonders if they will still be in Italy next spring. He wonders if they will still be alive.

At one point, Dante somehow escapes from Will’s room and makes himself the darling of the party. He is cooed over and petted and Will is called upon to put him through his, thus far fairly limited, paces. When the little fluff ball finally manages to roll over properly, several people cheer.

Hannibal watches this all with an indulgent smile, though Will thinks he can see something very different going on behind those eyes. Under the pretense of asking some sort of host-related question, he leans in and whispers in his ear, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Stop window shopping,” he murmurs. “It shows.”

“Not to them,” Hannibal breathes back.

“Remember our conversation about not compromising Abigail?”

Hannibal turns away to go check on something in the kitchen, but Will is sure he hears an annoyed little sigh escape the man’s lips.

When at last their guests are called to sit, Hannibal presents the dishes as usual. They are truly decadent, impressive even for Hannibal’s skill. Everyone’s lips are heavy with compliments, but Hannibal waves them off with a modest, “At least wait until you’ve tasted them.”

The conversation flows around Will. Earlier in the evening, he'd simply been able to avoid conversations in Italian, but now it seems that he is one of a very few present who is not at least fully bilingual. The chatter washes between languages depending on which has the most useful word for the moment. He smiles and nods and hopes for the best. Whenever it becomes too much, he can cut his eyes back to Hannibal. He seems to be taking his nourishment not from the food in front of him, but from the sight of the others eating unknowingly at his table. Hannibal draws strength from the horror and Will draws strength from Hannibal. 

After dinner, Hannibal is called upon to demonstrate his skill at the piano and perform a recent composition he had, apparently, mentioned at work. Will slips away to clear the table from the last course and simply listens to Hannibal’s music and the occasional, appetitive sounds from his audience. 

Alone in the kitchen, Will has a few moments to clear his mind. He’s been tense all night and it takes him a minute to parse out why. He does not fear their capture, not in this moment at any rate. He feels no guilt over what they had offered their guests; the food had been good and nourishing and really what else could one ask for? No, what tangles around Will’s stomach, threatening to pull him in upon himself, is the fear that Hannibal not only does not need him, but could happily do without him. This is Hannibal’s element and Will does not belong here any more than Hannibal would have belonged at the house in Wolf Trap. Abandonment is such a common yet potent fear.

Will finishes setting aside the dirty dishes and sighs heavily. For all that he understands Hannibal, it is moments like this that make the differences between them seem insurmountable. Still, he straightens his suit and goes back to the party. Hannibal is worth his best attempt.

The loose semi-circle around Hannibal and the piano has a break in it by the doorway to the kitchen and it is into this gap that Will steps. He is facing Hannibal across the room, across the instrument, and he can’t help but smile at the tranquil look on the man’s face. This, he knows, is real. In fact, it is probably the only real thing any of these people will ever see from Hannibal — unless he decides to kill one of them.

He’s not quite right, though, for, in that moment, Hannibal looks up and sees Will and his breath stops in his throat. His hands stop too, still spread above the keyboard as if confused as to why the mind had suddenly lost interest in them. The last notes from the piano hang in the air like ghosts and yet they both hear Hannibal take his next breath. It is only a moment and Will doubts that their guests take much notice of it, if any, but in that one moment, their eyes meet and Will understands —  _ knows _ — that he belongs in every part of Hannibal’s world. He knows that Hannibal will destroy any part of the word that offends him, that he will cross the Earth to bring Will whatever he wants. The only thing he cannot do for Will is stop and it is the one thing Will could never ask of him. 

❈❈❈

Will stands at Hannibal’s side as they bid their guests goodnight, leaning into the other man’s warmth and the feeling of his fingers occasionally pressing into the wound above Will’s hip. When at last the flat is empty again, Will takes Dante out and then gets him settled for the night while Hannibal starts on the clean-up. When Will reappears in the kitchen, however, Hannibal puts his work aside. He looks at Will, still in his suit, for a long moment and Will lets him do it, finally able to enjoy the pressure of those eyes on his body. 

“What did you see,” Will asks, “when you stopped playing to look at me?”

Hannibal doesn't answer right away, but Will is used to this now. He watches Hannibal watching him over the stacks of dirty plates and the remains of the various courses.

“There are moments of clarity,” he says at last, speaking slowly and carefully. “It can be hard to see how your garden has grown until you’re away from it and then return to find the seedlings have somehow become flourishing plants.”

Will nods. He's been having a similar experience with Dante, but he doubts that this is really what Hannibal means.

“I’ve lived many lives, but some things have always been the same.”

Will resists the urge to make a snide comment about Hannibal’s opulent tastes. It isn’t the moment; he can see in Hannibal’s eyes that he is being offered a rare and precious gift.

“You’ve been alone,” he says.

“And it suited me,” he replies, turning back to washing the serving knives. “Unlike most people, I am very aware of who I am and I am not someone who — what is the term? — plays well with others.”

Will can hear the sardonic little smile in Hannibal’s voice, but he simply waits.There is more, he can feel it, and he hopes very badly that Hannibal will let him have it. 

Hannibal stands in silence, washing and drying the silver serving things. Will doesn't think he’s ever seen Hannibal not be able to meet someone’s eye as he speaks, yet now he doesn't even turn to face Will. It must be truly costing him and Will wants to hold every word like a fragile bird, fluttering and vulnerable. He wants to draw Hannibal against his body, to protect the frightened child that time and pain have walled so deeply inside the man’s chest that he has been almost entirely forgotten. But he is still and he waits.

He doesn’t hear Hannibal’s sigh, but he sees it in his shoulders as he puts away the silver.

“It took me a long time to understand what you were to me,” he says. “That’s very unusual for me.”

“I could say the same.”

He turns back towards the sink and Will can catch the slightest curve to Hannibal’s lips.

“It can take the conscious mind time to understand what the subconscious has long known,” he says.

_ Say it. Tell me. Tell me what you understand, what you know. You know I won't run. _

But Will cannot ask for this, only wait for Hannibal to decide to give it to him.

At last, Hannibal turns to look at Will. They face each other across the evidence of their crimes and their eyes meet, hazel and blue, both gazes steady even as floods of emotions threaten to overwhelm two time-hardened levies. 

“You changed the world, Will Graham. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were like nothing else on Earth.”

“You just had to take me apart first to see how I worked — to be sure.” It is not an accusation.

“Yes.” It is not an apology. 

“You could tell I wasn't one of them,” Will says, his eyes sliding to the remains of the food for only an instant. 

“As you could tell your dogs from pigs.”

Will raises his eyebrows slightly. He isn't sure if this is meant to imply that Hannibal still sees him as a lesser form of life or if it means that he feels for Will as strongly as Will feels for the dogs. He doesn't ask.

“How does it feel to not be alone?” he asks instead.

“How is it for you?”

Will shakes his head fondly. Leave it to a psychiatrist.

“It would be terrifying, if you were different.”

“If I were different, you would still be alone,” Hannibal points out. “Why would you be afraid?” he asks after Will has had a moment for the sting of his words to fade.

“I'd be afraid of losing you. That you'd leave or be taken from me.”

“But you don't fear those things now?”

Will smiles bitterly.

“If they tried to take you, they'd try to take me as well and I'm not going back behind bars.”

“And how do you know I won't leave you?”

“I don't,” says Will. “But I do know that you won't leave me alive.”

Hannibal smiles at him and Will feels it like the sun’s warmth. 

“The things you do to me could ruin several of Dr. Chilton’s papers,” he says softly.

Will smiles gently, a true, untarnished happiness washing through him. He knows which emotions Chilton claimed Hannibal to be incapable of and he bites down on the urge to say “I love you too.” He isn't that crazy. Yet. Instead, he walks to him and takes his face in both hands. Their eyes are locked, Hannibal’s bright with an endless mirror of emotions. Will kisses him and, in the instant before his eyes close, he catches the look in Hannibal’s. It's pure and almost startled, shining like silver suddenly free of tarnish. Will can feel it in his kiss just as clearly as he could see it in his eyes.

For a long moment, that's all there is: a simple kiss saying all that words cannot encompass. Then they pull apart and it’s all bubbling up in Will’s chest and he's laughing, bright sounds ringing in the quiet flat. Hannibal stares at him and Will can see him trying to parse his way through the tangle of Will’s mind to catch up to the laughter. Will shakes his head.

“In less than forty-eight hours, we’ve gotten away with murder, thrown an incredible last-minute dinner party, and fed human flesh to the top minds of Italy without them having a single clue. And yet you and I, a psychiatrist and a profiler, can't have a proper emotional conversation,” he says. 

“Was there something else you wanted to say?” Hannibal asks.

Will hums softly.

“Yeah, I can think of something,” he says, giddy on what they'd done and what Hannibal hadn't quite said to him.

“Oh? And what is that?”

Will starts towards the kitchen door. Best to give himself a head start if he's going to use foul language. He looks back at Hannibal from the doorway and knows the dark lust in Hannibal's eyes is echoed his own.

“Fuck me.”


	15. Chapter 15

Will lies with his head on Hannibal’s chest, warm and content and sleepy. Hannibal is half sitting against the headboard, the fingers of one hand running through Will’s hair over and over. Will isn’t sure where Hannibal’s mind is at the moment, but hopes that it’s present. He presses his face into Hannibal’s chest and breathes in the smell of his body. He is so soft and warm and alive and it is remarkable to Will. He can feel the fragility of Hannibal’s skin, hear the beat of his heart protected by only a few, easily broken ribs. 

There is still a part of his mind, perhaps the only sane part left, screaming at him that here, in the arms of cannibalistic serial killer, is the last place on earth that he should feel safe. But he shrugs those thoughts away, hushing them as he might one of his dogs if it got over-excited. Because he does feel safe. And it’s the best feeling in the world. Drowsy and drifting, his mind is fairly quiet. He’s shaken off the extraneous emotions he picked up during the party and now the only active feelings in his mind are his own and perhaps Hannibal’s, but those are too similar to his for Will to be sure.

Hannibal's fingers in his hair feel perfect. He lets all his focus go to that one sensation and floats.

“Will,” says Hannibal softy.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me how you killed Jack Crawford.”

Will blinks and takes a moment to pull his focus together.

“Is that seriously your idea of pillow talk?”

“Tell me,” Hannibal says again.

Will sighs, but just to clear his lungs so he can breath in and begin.

“I went to his house, rang the bell. He opened the door and let me in. He was surprised to see me there; we were supposed to meet at your house.”

“To kill me,” Hannibal says.

“Yes,” Will confirms. “To kill you. It was early — not in the day, but well before we were supposed to go to dinner. Jack answered the door quickly and he looked like he was about to leave. I think he was planning on beating me to you, in case he was wrong about me.” Will thinks about this, wonders who would have won that fight: Jack or Hannibal. “I went inside and closed the door. I think he asked me if I wanted to talk about the plan or something. I don’t remember; I wasn’t really there. Or at least I wasn’t the only one there.”

“Who was with you?” Hannibal asks.

“You,” Will says. “Mostly you, but the others are always there.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. He realized pretty quick that I wasn’t there to talk and I think that’s when he got nervous. I remember him saying my name, backing away a little like I was a wild animal. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to connect the dots. Just like he couldn’t make himself believe me about you for so long.”

Will feels Hannibal hum softly, a gentle buzz that transfers from Hannibal’s ribs to Will’s skull.

“I didn’t wait. I wasn’t doing it to be cruel. I just did it and left.”

“How did you kill him?”

Will chews his lip for a moment. He isn’t sorry that he killed Jack, but he is sorry that it had had to happen, especially when Bella was so sick. Jack may not have always made the kindest choices regarding Will, but he had been a good man and a good agent. He had always made the hard calls for the good of the many. Though it’s hard to appreciate that when you are the one. Still, Will doesn’t hold it against him now that he has some distance and Jack’s treatment of him had had nothing to do with his death.

His eyes close and he can see it all like he’s standing in Jack’s front hallway rather than lying against Hannibal in Italy some four thousand miles away.

_ Jack is speaking, but Will cannot hear him. He raises one hand to Will, his mouth forming the shape of Will’s name. Will’s mind is dark and he pulls the darkness around him like shield, hiding the good things in him and letting the killers and his own desires lead him onward. Perhaps Jack is still speaking, but Will doesn't know. He moves towards Jack, face almost blank. “I’m sorry,” he says even though, in a way, he isn’t. Then he moves fast. He doesn’t want this to last. He drives the knife into the side of Jack’s throat and yanks it out again. Blood sprays far and fast and Will feels it on his skin. Jack falls, his face still not quite believing that he had been so wrong about both Hannibal  _ and _ Will. Will closes his eyes for a moment and lets it all go. It’s quiet inside his mind even as he looks again at Jack’s body. His phone is ringing.  _

“Will,” Hannibal prompts gently.

Will sallows, pulling himself back to the present, back to the feeling of Hannibal’s hand in his hair and the sound of Hannibal’s heart in his ear.

“I stabbed him,” he says, voice steady and low. “In the throat.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not your psychiatrist anymore or I might have to analyze that.”

Will makes an annoyed sound and pokes him hard in the side.

“I didn’t want it to last. I didn’t want to think about it.” He sighs heavily. “I didn’t want to kill him,” he says at last. “I just wanted him to be dead.”

Hannibal is quiet, his fingers move down Will’s neck to the puckered scar on his shoulder where Jack had shot him, defending Hannibal. The skin is a little numb there still, but Will can feel Hannibal’s fingers prodding it with medical precision.

“Because he thought I was going to shoot you,” Will says with a soft chuckle.

“Yes.”

Silence again.

“When did you know when you were going to do it?” Hannibal asks.

Will considers.

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you know when you were going to Jack’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Did you think about what you were going to do?”

“No. Not the specifics, anyway. I just knew he had to be dead.” Will turns his head to press his whole face into Hannibal’s chest for a moment. It isn’t comfortable, but it’s grounding. “Did you know I was going to kill him?”

“No,” Hannibal says and Will understands what this admission means.

“Did you know I’d choose you?” he asks.

“I hoped. I was ready, as you know, but I wasn’t sure if you were capable of making that choice.”

“If you’d killed me that night, you would have had to just leave me there.”

“Yes.”

“Would you have regretted that? Not getting to eat me?”

Hannibal shakes his head slightly.

“I never intended to kill you for that.”

Will smiles against Hannibal’s skin.

❈❈❈

And they go on. Will works the land and roams it with his pack. Hannibal comes and goes from the farm more frequently now, sometimes bringing Will books or little tokens and always cooking with him. Abigail's visits, however, become less frequent. Will quietly encourages her to take a semester abroad, to truly live on her own and, though he doesn’t say it, to get away from Hannibal and himself. She tells him she’d miss the dogs too much, but Will can tell she’s seriously considering it. 

They throw dinner parties, sometimes intimate, sometimes lavish, though sometimes they don’t share. There’s a rapist who broke his parole, an animal abuser being ignored by the local cops, the cop who turned a blind eye to said abuser, someone who was extremely rude to Hannibal at work...

Will knows they’re starting to get lax. Well,  _ he’s _ starting to get lax; Hannibal is as meticulous as ever. But Will’s standards are slipping, just a little. They can’t always make the kind of art they want to, but they always find beauty in it one way or another. Will has given up on thinking about how happy he shouldn’t be in favor of simply enjoying how happy he is. Because he is happy; he’s the happiest he’s ever been in his life. He has his farm and his dogs and his lover and their murders. He has calluses on his hands from work and bruises on his body from Hannibal. It’s passionate and violent and yet it can be so quiet and tender. Will loves it all, every facet. From murder to cooking to silent evenings spent reading to sex loud enough to make the dogs bark. Sometimes they go out even when they aren’t planning to kill someone. It’s a strange and precious feeling, the way Hannibal craves Will’s company, and Will feeds on it like a butterfly at a flower.

Will’s nightmares have receded, for the most part, and he never has them when he sleeps in Hannibal’s arms. It’s… idyllic, at least for them, the world’s most messed-up couple. (Once, Will had imagined them on the Newlywed Game and had laughed so hard he’d nearly choked.) It’s far too close to perfect to be safe. Will knows this and Hannibal knows this and they do not speak about it. Why waste such precious time counting down the days until it is gone?

❈❈❈

Will is alone in the flat when the phone rings. He narrows his eyes at it. This has only happened a few times before and he doesn’t like it. But, he thinks rolling his eyes, not answering would be rude.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Hello,” says a male voice Will doesn’t know, thick with an Italian accent. “Senior Fell?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Inspector Pazzi.”

Will’s frown deepens. He really doesn’t like that someone from the police is calling the flat. The man doesn’t sound serious enough to be calling about one of their kills and surely they would have come in person if they had any real evidence. But still. What is Hannibal not telling him this time?

“I’m sorry,” Will says, trying to sound polite and calm. “But I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We talked at your work. At the Caponi?”

“Oh, you’re calling for  _ Roman _ Fell,” Will says, not sure if he feels better or worse. At least no one is interested in unassuming Frances Fell with his farm and his dogs, but the fact that Hannibal is drawing this sort of attention to himself is more than a little concerning. 

“Yes,” says Inspector Pazzi. “And you are?”

“Frances Fell.”

“Ah, I did not know Senior Fell had a brother.”

“He doesn’t,” Will says shortly, surprised to find himself feeling more than a little offended. “I’m his husband.”

“Ah,” says Pazzi again and Will feels himself settling into a strong dislike towards the man.

“I’ll let Roman know you called. Good day, Inspector,” he says and hangs up before Pazzi can so much as leave a callback number. 

Will is going to have a serious talk with Hannibal.

❈❈❈

Historically, this much anger and yelling between them has led to sex, but past performance is no guarantee of future results.

“What do you mean he wants to sell us to Mason Verger?” Will bellows, face red with fury.

“Technically, he has only arranged for my sale, but I’m sure Mason would pay for you as well,” Hannibal replies coolly.

Hannibal’s calm only fuels Will’s rage. He’s shaking and his throat is already raw from shouting.

“And you saw no need to tell me about this why, exactly?”

“Because I have no intention of allowing Mason Verger anywhere near us.”

“It doesn’t matter what you  _ intend _ ,” Will scoffs, “Someone even crazier than you knows where we are and even if this Pazzi fails, Verger will just send someone else.”

“I’m not crazy, Will,” says Hannibal quietly.

“Whatever.” Will isn’t about to let Hannibal sidetrack him into a different argument. “What if he came after you went to work or if he found out about the farm? Hell, what if he sends someone after Abigail?” 

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“ _ How do you know? _ ”

Will can’t stand the look on Hannibal’s face, so calm and all-knowing like nothing in the world could possibly deviate from his personal plan. He doesn't know how to make Hannibal appreciate the danger Mason Verger poses to their world, to their very lives. In his glorious omniscience, Hannibal had seen fit to leave Will and Abigail exposed to a serious madman — not to mention his poor dogs. Will knows there’s no making Hannibal guard his own life with any extra caution and he’s already thrown his lot in with Hannibal’s, but Abigail and the pack are different, innocent, at least in this.

“You can’t gamble with our  _ lives _ ; you just can’t.”

“I will always protect you.”

Will shoves down the swell emotion that those words begin in his chest and rages on.

“What about Abigail? She’s two hundred miles away in Rome and she’s not like us. What about my fucking dogs, Hannibal? What about them? Jesus!”

He turns away, unable to look at Hannibal anymore. He hears Hannibal moving towards him and feels his muscles tense. 

“Will,” Hannibal begins, fingers starting to land on Will’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Will shouts, spinning around again. “This isn’t okay, Hannibal. Do you get that? This is not okay.”

Hannibal just looks into his face and Will wants to punch him, but he knows it wouldn’t help.

“What do you want me to do, Will?” Hannibal’s voice is quiet, his body relaxed and ready to accept whatever violence Will might inflict upon it.

“I don’t know, apologize?” Will spits at him.

“I wanted to protect you.”

“So you risked my life? Great thinking there.”

“Life is more than breath and blood,” Hannibal says. “I was protecting your happiness, your peace at the farm. I didn’t want to see you afraid again.”

Will grinds his teeth.

“I am not afraid of Mason Verger,” he grits out. “And it’s not your call to make. I’m a goddamn adult and you should have told me. No more lies, remember, or was that a lie too?” He somehow manages to glare even harder at Hannibal. “Is all of this,” he gestures around at the life they’ve built together, the life he’d thought they were sharing as partners, “Just one big fucking lie?”

“No,” Hannibal says at once and Will catches the slightest note of worry in his voice as he realizes the scope of the damage he’s done. “I—. No. Will.” 

Will stands there, still breathing rather harder than usual, waiting to see if Hannibal will admit he was wrong or not.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “It was wrong of me not to tell you and for that I am sorry. No more lies.”

Will nods sharply, not trusting his tongue just yet.

“Let me offer you this,” he continues. “Pazzi is coming to see me at work again in a few days. He’ll come late, after everyone has gone. Meet me there and finish this with me.”

“Killing him won’t finish it,” Will points out. “Killing  _ Mason _ will do that.”

“And to that end, I intend to reach out to dear Margot. She will insure that Mason isn’t long for this world.” 

Will takes a long breath and exhales heavily, as if trying to expel some of the anger from his body.

“Okay,” he says. “But I want you to make sure Abigail’s safe until Mason’s dead.”

Hannibal nods his agreement. 

“The farm isn’t legally traceable to the Fell name,” Hannibal tells him. “Mason’s people would have to follow you there in person.”

Will nods; he knows how to handle that. 

Hannibal starts to reach for him again, but Will shrugs him off.

“No,” he says. “You don’t get to do that.”

Hannibal actually drops his gaze and Will thinks it’s the closest thing to shame he’s ever going to see on the man’s face. Will just walks away. He goes to his room and shoves his clothes into his duffle.

“Will?” Hannibal asks when he comes back out again.

“I’m going home.”

“It’s late.”

“Yeah, well, the headlights will make it easier to tell if someone’s fucking following me, won’t it?”

He hears a very soft sigh from Hannibal, but he’s almost at the door when Hannibal speaks again.

“Be safe, Will,” he says quietly.

“I’ll do my goddamn best, no thanks to you.”

Will’s out the door before Hannibal can reply.

He gets a cab to the park-and-ride and drives back to the farm. Focusing on driving takes his mind off his anger somewhat, but his knuckles are practically white on the steering wheel all the same. 

The thing is, he isn’t sure if he’s more angry at Hannibal or at himself. Yes, Hannibal had done something remarkable stupid and selfish and risky, but not something that was ultimately out of character for the man Will knew Hannibal to be. He, on the other hand, was the fucking idiot who had trusted Hannibal goddamn Lecter. He knew that Hannibal didn’t love him, not really, not the way anyone else might. He could be Hannibal’s whole world, but it would never be the same. Still, he had thought…

But it didn’t matter.

Though that look Hannibal had given him when Will had suggested that everything between them was a lie…

Will shook his head hard. He had the dogs to worry about. And, apparently, a murder to prepare for.


	16. Chapter 16

Will watches from the shadows. He hates lurking like this, but knows it wouldn’t do for Pazzi to see him just yet. He can only see part of the room, but he can see Hannibal’s workstation. He leans his mind into the waltz that Hannibal has put on, trying to find calm in its rhythm, but he’s tense and, though he doesn’t like to admit it even to himself, he’s afraid. This won’t be like their other kills. Yes, they will get some measure of pleasure from it, but they’re doing it because they have to and, even if it goes off without a hitch, it will mark the beginning of the end of their life here. Will doesn’t want to give up this life, but that isn’t what he fears.

He watches Hannibal intently, scanning for any sign that something might be amiss as he waits his visitor, but Hannibal is calmly focused on his work and, with his back to Will, there’s little information to be found in his figure at such a distance. 

At last, Will hears footsteps.

“Dr. Fell?”

Will cannot see Pazzi enter the room, but he recognizes the voice at once.

“ _ Buonasera, commendatore _ ,” says Hannibal and Will can hear the polite smile in Hannibal’s voice even as he steps out of Will’s line of sight.

“ _ Buonasera, Dottore Fell _ .”

“You said you had something to show me?”

Hannibal and Will had discussed what Pazzi and Verger’s plan might be and, while they couldn’t be sure of the details, they did think that Mason would demand a fresh fingerprint  _ in situ _ as proof. Will hears Hannibal set down the knife on his table, both the bait and the hook that will soon enough be lodged in the unfortunate inspector. 

“Yes,” Pazzi is saying. “Given the nature of your... exhibition and the contents of our last conversation, I brought something I thought you might like to see.”

Will hears movement and then both men are back in his sight. Pazzi has a large wooden box that he sets on the table. Hannibal moves around him with interest, but Will knows that he’s simply ensuring Will doesn’t miss the view. Pazzi opens the chest and draws out an ancient-looking piece of metal headgear of the sort used in medieval torture and punishment. 

“It was supposedly worn by Francesco de Pazzi when he met his end,” Pazzi says, settling it down for Hannibal to see. “My family guilt cast in iron.”

“A scold's bridle,” Hannibal says, sounding only a hair too pleased. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Will watches Hannibal pull on his white gloves and inspect the bridle.

“A wonderful heirloom. I'm so glad you stopped by, _Commendatore_ Pazzi, as I have a family heirloom for you.”

Hannibal moves from Will’s vision to fetch the carving. Will has to admit it’s a wonderful touch. A stroke of luck, of course, but still, it couldn’t be more perfect. Not to mention it would mean their first kill together working from a reference. 

“Beneath the figure is written a name. Can you make it out?”

“It says Pazzi." The man himself sounds, Will thinks, strangely excited over the gory tribute to his family’s ancestral shame.

“This is your ancestor, Francesco, hanging outside the Palazzo,” Hannibal tells him cheerfully. “This particular illustration is bowels out. I've seen others bowels in. By all accounts, Francesco was led astray by thirty pieces of silver from the hand of the Papal banker.” There is a heavy pause and Will can tell that Hannibal has caught Pazzi’s gaze with his terrible stare. “It's hard to see,” he continues, “But here's where the archbishop bit him. Eyes wild as he choked, the archbishop locked his teeth in Pazzi's flesh.” 

Hannibal smiles, Will knows he does even though he can’t quite see it, and then turns away to set the carving somewhere safe. Always the scholar, Will thinks, shaking his head as he steps into position.

“On a related subject, I must confess, I've been giving very serious thought to doing the same.”

Hannibal is in motion before Pazzi can process what he’s said and Will is right on his heels. Hannibal does most of the work, holding the cloth to the struggling man’s face, but Will grabs him as well, helping to hold him still and watching his eyes drop closed.

They let him slump to the floor and take a moment to catch their breath. The inspector lies at their feet, cheap suit rumpled and breathing growing steady. Will shakes his head.

“I know,” says Hannibal before he can speak. “But it is as it must be. We knew this life was not forever.”

Will nods, though Hannibal can still see the sorrow in his eyes.

“Come,” he says. “A bit of fun before we go.”

Will quirks a slight smile at him and they begin their work together.

They duct tape the man’s mouth and strap him to a red hand truck. Will is bitterly reminded of his trip to the scene of Beverly's… display. That remains one of the few things Will hasn’t forgiven Hannibal for, perhaps the only thing he never will forgive. 

He blinks the memories away and rolls the unconscious man into a side storage room. Hannibal opens the window and Will settles the cart before it. The night air is cool and clean, even in the city. That is one of the best marvels of Europe to Will: the cities don’t reek the way they do in America.

Hannibal and Will stand to either side of the man, watching him in silence. Will is in simple work clothes of the sort he wears around the farm. They’d gotten him an odd look at the security desk, but he was Roman Fell’s husband; they wouldn’t deny him entry, even after hours. Hannibal has taken off his suit jacket and his vest is darkest blue again the starched, white shirt. Will’s eyes flick from Pazzi to Hannibal, knowing he should watch the one, but only wanting to gaze upon the other. Hannibal’s smile when he looks at Will is a little bittersweet, but their prey begins to stir before either can speak. 

“Can you hear me, Signor Pazzi?” Hannibal asks. “Take a deep breath while you can. Clear your head.”

The man blinks and tries to gasp, but the tape is heavy across his mouth. He breathes rapidly through his nose, eyes glued on Hannibal, trying to track his movements as he starts to tie an extension cord into a noose.

“I haven't had a bite all day.” Hannibal smiles lightly. “Actually, your liver and kidneys would be suitable for dinner right away — tonight, even — but the rest of the meat should hang at least a week in the current cool conditions. I didn't see the forecast, did you?”

This last he says to Will and Pazzi follows his gaze. Will can see his whole body twitch when the man sees him.

“No,” Will says. “Did you, Inspector?”

A pause in which the man’s desperate eyes shoot back and forth between Will and Hannibal.

“I gather that means no," says Hannibal with a slight shrug. “If you tell us what we need to know,  _ Commendatore _ , it would be convenient for us to leave without our meal. I will ask you the questions and then we'll see. You can trust us, you know, though I expect that you find trust difficult, knowing yourself.”

“Get on with it,” Will says, annoyed.

“Patience, dear Will; the  _ Commendatore _ has had a hard day already.”

Will just rolls his eyes.

“You’ll have to forgive my Will,  _ Commendatore _ ; he’s been under stress of late.”

Will starts to jump on Hannibal for that, but manages to stop himself.

“When the police didn't come, it was clear that you had sold me,” Hannibal says. “It was Mason Verger you sold me to, wasn’t it?” 

Pazzi manages a nod.

“Thank you. I called the number on his "wanted" site once, far from here, just for fun,” Hannibal says, finishing off the noose with unnecessary flourish.

“You did what?” Will demands sharply. 

“Perfectly safe, I assure you. Information is part of a strong defense.”

“We’re talking about this later,” growls Will.

“As you like.” Hannibal turns his attention back to Pazzi. “Have you told anyone at the  _ Questura _ about me?”

Pazzi makes an unclear head movement.

“Was that a nod?” Hannibal asks.

“I think it was a no.”

Before they can discuss it any further, Pazzi’s phone buzzes inside his jacket. Hannibal frowns slightly and pulls it out.

“ _ Pronto _ ,” he says.

Hannibal’s face goes unreadable even to Will as he listens.

“Hello, Alana. I'm afraid the inspector is otherwise occupied,” he says after a pause.

Will’s eyes go wide and he clenches his jaw. He catches Hannibal’s gaze, silently demanding the phone.

“There is nothing I would love more than to be able to chat with you, Alana, but you caught me at a rather awkward moment. However, there is someone here who would like to say hello, I believe.” And he offers the phone to Will.

Will takes it, hands not shaking but not quite steady either. He raises it slowly to his ear.

“Inspector Pazzi?” asks a voice so familiar that it steals the air from Will’s body. “Senior Pazzi?”

Will lets out a long, slow breath.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“Hello, Alanna,” he says.

Will can hear her breath catch in her throat, can imagine the way her calm veneer shatters at the sound of his voice, long since thought dead.

“Will?” she whispers. “Will, you’re— you’re—.”

“Yes,” he says.

“What’s happening? Is Pazzi with you? Is Hannibal—?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. Will imagines her putting the pieces together, flipping through more and more desperate possibilities as she tries to fend off the obvious truth of where Will is and what he is doing.

“I’m sorry, Alanna. This isn’t what I wanted for you,” Will says.

“What isn’t?” she asks, breathless.

“What will happen to you if you keep looking for us.”

“Us?”

Will sighs softly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Will, please.” There’s desperation rising in her voice. “Mason, he’s—.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“Say what?”

“Good-bye, Alana.”

And he hangs up.

Hannibal looks at him, clearly reading his face. Will gives him a slight nod. He hates causing Alana such pain and confusion, but surely she already knew he’d killed Jack. Could he really ruin her memories of him any more at this point?

“Sorry for the interruption,” Hannibal says to Pazzi as if he had been the one on the phone. “Well,  _ Commendatore _ , which do you think? Bowels in or bowels out?”

Pazzi’s only response is a weak, panicked wriggle. 

Hannibal looks to Will instead.

Something is burning in Will’s chest. Perhaps it’s knowing what he’s about to lose here in Italy, perhaps it was hearing Alana’s voice, perhaps it’s just been a matter of time all along. Whatever the reason, the last of his hesitations and regrets are burning away. Anything inside that might have led him back to Baltimore is crumbling to ash and he can see with utter clarity at last.

Hannibal stands before him, burning in his own right. Will sees him like an angel wreathed in flame, power and beauty beyond man’s comprehension. It’s staggering and perfect and all Will could ever want in the world. It’s hard now to understand the things that had once held him back from Hannibal, from his adoration, from all they could be together, all they now were.

“Out, I think,” Will says casually and Hannibal rips the knife through Pazzi’s abdomen faster than thought. 


	17. Chapter 17

Will stands below the window looking back up at Hannibal framed by stone. Between them hangs the body of Rinaldo Pazzi, his bowls at Will’s feet and the end of the extension cord at Hannibal’s: the remains of a life reaching from one man to the other, connecting them. It’s bittersweet to Will, the electric thrill of the moment tainted by all that they are about to lose. He wonders if they will ever share the art of death again, but pushes the thought aside. There is still work to do tonight.

Still, they take their moment, breathing in the smells that are made to exist only inside the body and watching one another, memorizing. Then Hannibal gives a short nod and they each turn away. Will strolls off into the night, going to fetch the car. Hannibal will tidy up and then meet him out front. He will walk away from a murder scene past the security desk.

Will pulls Hannibal’s sleek, black car around to the front of the Capponi and waits.

And waits.

Waiting too long.

He tries to tell himself that it’s fine. If someone had caught Hannibal inside, he would had heard alarms. Lights would be snapping on and voices would be shouting out. Will chews his lip and tries to tell himself that he’s just being impatient. Hannibal will be here any minute. Any minute now. Any minute.

Something inside Will snaps and he throws himself from the car. He crashes through the door, totally ignoring the shout of surprise from the night guard as he streaks past him to the stairs. Every slam of his feet against stone seems to beat out “too long, too long” and his heart hammers in his chest “something’s wrong, something’s wrong.” Will throws himself around corners and through doorways until he hears the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. His breath stutters for a moment, but he pushes himself on. He doesn't know what’s happening, but he knows —  _ knows  _ — that it’s bad and that it’s happening  _ to _ Hannibal.

By the time he skids to a halt, he feels sure he’s going to vomit if he can get enough air to power his body and it takes him a moment to understand what he’s seeing. 

He understands the sight of Hannibal first. Hannibal on the floor, blood staining his white shirt. Hannibal gasping for breath, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. Hannibal pinned by the breaking wheel, blood coming from god knows where on his twisted arm. Will wants to scream and throw up and cry and kill. His eyes manage to move away from Hannibal and onto the figure who had visited this suffering on the man that belongs to Will and Will alone.

Jack Crawford. 

Jack, who had died in Baltimore. Jack, who Will had stabbed in the throat, murdered in cold blood. Jack, who had ruined his goddamn life when he’d brought Will back into the field, when he’d put him in a room with Hannibal Lecter. Jack, standing here, in Florence, in slacks and sweater vest like he’d just dropped in to say hello on his way to give a lecture — except he isn’t wearing shoes.

Around them, the room is in shambles. Glass and blood are everywhere, including on one of the old implements of torture. Blood is slick on the ground and heavy in the air. The only place there doesn’t seem to be any blood is on Jack. Will can’t breath, looking at it all. He’s seen Hannibal hurt before — hell, he’s beaten the shit out of the man himself, has fantasized about killing him — but this is different. This makes him shake with rage and terror. This tears him down to something primal and terrible. And it isn’t the blood, he slowly realizes, or the shock of seeing Jack alive and well, it’s the look in Hannibal’s eyes. Will swallows as he sees that Hannibal had accepted his death at Jack’s hand.

Will doesn’t know which of them he what wants to kill more. 

Jack and Hannibal are both staring at Will and Will doesn’t know what move to make.

“We really must work on your ability to tell the living from the dead,” says Hannibal, his blasé tone rather undermined by the weakness of his voice.

Will latches onto Hannibal’s words. This is something he can understand, their casual banter before a kill.

“I was distracted,” he says, voice a little unsteady. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“Always, dear Will.”

Will feels a sob well up in his chest as he understands the truth in Hannibal’s words. He wants to run to the other man and hold him, to lick the blood from his wounds and make him forget that pain ever existed. But Jack Crawford, alive and furious, stands between them. Will forces his gaze to Jack.

“You’re looking well,” he says.

“This isn’t about you, Will, but it can be,” Jack says and Will sees the tiniest movements of pain in Hannibal’s face as Jack leans more weight onto the wheel.

“Killing us won’t mean you weren’t wrong,” Will points out. “Are you still in the FBI, Jack, or did they kick you out for working cases with two separate psychopaths?” He knows he’s goding Jack, knows too that Jack could easily win against him in a fight, but he’s ready to do what he must to get Jack away from Hannibal. “Did you have to give your report to the Director yourself or had you already been fired by the time you were out of the hospital?” Will looks steadily into Jack’s eyes and sees that it is this, more than his words, that unnerves the man.

_ These sons of bitches ruined my life, destroyed the last months I had with Bella. Now, I’m going to make them pay. I don’t know what kind of twisted shit they’ve been doing here and I don’t care because it ends now. It all ends now. _

“Going to kill us, Jack? I think since we’re abroad that just counts as murder, doesn't it? What do you think, Hannibal?”

“Even if Jack is still FBI, that wouldn’t give him international jurisdiction.”

Jack snarls at Hannibal and leans harder on the wheel. Will can see the scream in Hannibal’s eyes.

“Let him go, Jack,” Will says coolly.

“So Lounds was right about you,” Jack spits. “He tried to  _ kill _ you, Will, more than once.” There is desperation in the depths of Jack’s eyes, a pleading for Will to bring the insanity to end, to make it all make sense again.

Will just shrugs.

“Let. Him. Go.”

Jack stares into Will’s eyes and Will stares right back.

_ What the hell happened to this kid? Is it my fault? I remember when he wouldn’t so much as glance into your face and now it’s like there’s nothing behind his eyes. Now, he’s like Lecter. If I hadn’t brought them together… If I hadn’t forced Will... _

“This isn’t your fault, Jack. This was in me all along. Hannibal just helped me see it.”

Hannibal smiles, but all Will can see is more blood.

“Don’t use your little tricks on me,” Jack snarls. 

“Killing us won’t get you your life back,” Will says.  _ No, not quite right. What is it?  _ His eyes slide over Jack in an instant, seeing all the things that other eyes do not.  _ Ah, yes, there it is. _ “Killing us won’t bring  _ her _ back.”

And Jack breaks.

He wrenches the wheel and this time Hannibal does cry out in pain as Will hears bone crunch. Jack throws himself at Will, but Will is already in motion. Still, Jack is bigger and stronger and he catches Will, throwing him into one of the glass cases. Will’s head screams as light dances around him. He lands in the broken glass, which digs its way into his flesh. He kneels, gasping, but his mind is uninjured. He knows that Jack won’t rush this; vengeance can’t be rushed. That gives him time and in the time it will take Jack to make his next move, Will’s mind will be twenty moves ahead.

When Jack reaches him, medieval battle-axe in hand, Will doesn’t quite look up at him. He sees Jack’s upswing and tenses. Just as the downswing become irreversible, he rolls to the side, hearing the ax bite into stone as Jack staggers, thrown off balance. Will is on his feet in a moment, putting himself firmly between Jack and Hannibal.

“Will,” Hannibal says behind him.

“No,” Will grits out as Jack turns back towards them. “You aren’t dying here; I won’t let you.”  _ You need my permission to die, motherfucker, and you can’t have it. _

The hitch in Hannibal’s labored breathing is all Will needs to hear to know that his claim on Hannibal’s life has been accepted, that Hannibal now has no intention of dying tonight.

Jack looks disgusted as he hefts the axe again. Will stands his ground, but notices a sheen of silver out of the corner of his eye. He waits until Jack has begun his charge before he throws himself towards it. Jack manages to turn before he hits the breaking wheel or trips over Hannibal, but it’s rough and awkward. Will knows how to press the one advantage his size and build give him. He grabs the slash of silver from the shadow and —  _ yes _ — his fingers close around the handle of the harpy blade.

Jack is nearly upon him when Will stands holding the small weapon, but he has found himself with a second advantage: Jack has no experience with the medieval axe while if Hannibal has taught Will anything it’s how to wield a knife. 

Will lunges, ducking under Jack’s heavy blow and coming up almost chest to chest with the other man. He can see the messy scar on Jack’s neck. He lodges the knife in Jack’s shoulder and blood blooms at last across the white shirt. The axe crashes to the floor, but Jack catches Will before he can get away. Heads slam together and, before Will can reorient himself, Jack lands a blow on his back and Will goes down. From there, it’s hard to track the kicks he takes, Jack’s stocking feet proving themselves to be powerful weapons. Will curls in on himself, trying to protect his organs, but Jack stomps onto Will’s kidney and then farther up, on his ribs. There is a sick crack and Will can’t help but cry out in pain.

Across the room, he can hear movement.  _ Hannibal, no. Stay down, dammit; stay down. _

“Jack.” Hannibal’s voice is steady and carrying.

The blows to Will’s body stop.

“I am truly sorry about Bella, Jack.”

Above Will, Jack goes very still. 

“For her, night and day would be very much the same in the end.”

Will hears the sound of metal on stone; Jack has retrieved the axe. He hears too the creak of the wheel and suspects that Hannibal has used it to pull himself to his feet.

“I imagine you were capable of giving any medication Bella may have needed in the night. Did you practice injections on an orange?”

Jack is in motion and Will manages to uncurl enough to see it. He’s advancing on Hannibal, taking his time, enjoying the view of Hannibal holding himself up on the breaking wall, legs shaking despite the calm look on his face.

“What medication did you give her in the end, Jack? Was it too much? Or just enough?”

It is this that breaks Jack again and he charges at Hannibal with a bestial cry that drowns out Will’s shout behind him. He cannot watch the axe come down on Hannibal, but he cannot look away either.

Hannibal, however, is still more able than he appears and the axe slams into the wheel, splintering wood instead of bone. Hannibal glances back at Will for just a moment and Will understands the command: take the head start and go. Will can see in his eyes that Hannibal has a plan, but he doesn't trust Hannibal’s body to be able to carry it out.

Hannibal limps towards the room from which Pazzi’s body must still hang and Jack prowls after him. Will wonders how he feels to finally,  _ finally _ be the predator. Will can see that Jack is going to catch Hannibal before he makes it out of the room and knows he has to slow the man down to give Hannibal a chance to do whatever insane thing he’s planning. He glances around, desperate for something useful. He sees it almost at once and feels the bile rise in his throat as he watches a drop of blood, Hannibal’s blood, fall from one of the spikes of the meathook. Will scoots his body across the floor, each labored breath agony against what he suspects is at least two broken ribs, and moves as quietly as he can towards the weapon.

Jack is ignoring him in favor of Hannibal. To an outsider it might seem foolish, but Jack is wise enough now to know that even gravely injured, Hannibal still poses the bigger threat. But Will’s fingers close around the ancient metal and he forces himself into swifter motion. Jack turns to look too late and Will sees Hannibal slip around the corner as he drives the hook into Jack’s leg. It isn’t a move to kill. Will doesn’t care if Jack lives or dies tonight; it’s just meant to slow him down. And it does. Jack goes to one knee and Will takes off as fast as he can.

He can hear Jack going after Hannibal, hears the grunt of pain as Jack pulls the hook from his leg, but he doesn’t stop. He retraces his frantic steps back down to the front desk, moving much more slowly now. Even the adrenaline of the fight isn’t enough to block out the pain from his ribs. It seems to take an eternity, but at last Will reaches the front desk. 

“Senior Fell?” asks the guard, rising behind his desk and looking, Will thinks, more confused than anything.

“Intruder,” Will gasps, clutching his side. “Upstairs. He’s got Roman. Please.”

The guard just stares at him, disbelief plain across his broad features.

“ _Aiutare_ _Roman_ ,” Will manages, pointing desperately at the stairs.

The guard snaps into action and he takes off up the stairs towards Hannibal and Jack. Will can hear him shouting into his phone or radio or whatever he has. Will doesn't care. He waits until the man is out of sight and then leaves.

He staggers into the mercifully empty street and starts the car. It hurts to drive (of course it does, it hurts to do anything), but he manages to get the car in sight of Pazzi’s body. He practically throws himself out when he sees two backlit figures in the window, one broad and standing, the other narrow and crumpled. Before Will can take so much as a few steps, he sees one figure swing an object into the other. 

Will doesn’t hear himself scream Hannibal’s name as the man topples backwards out of the window. Will seems to see it in slow motion: Hannibal’s fall, the stone rising up to meet his body. He can feel something tearing at his throat, but he hears nothing at all.

This is it. This is the moment his world ends.

Then Hannibal catches hold of Pazzi’s body and Will is running and Jack is leaning forward to see what has happened.

“Hannibal!” Will can hear himself screaming now, hear the pounding of his feet, though he no longer feels the agony in his body.

Hannibal is hanging on — hanging on, but just barely. Will can’t think anything beyond “get to Hannibal” and nearly falls when his foot slides in Pazzi’s bowls still wet on the paving stones. He stops and looks up at the man clinging to the body and knows that even if they both survive the night, his world is going to end before dawn. 

“Hannibal,” he says again, reaching out as if he could pluck the man from the air.

Hannibal falls.

Will doesn’t exactly catch him, but they land together on the stone and together they rise from it again. They take a moment to look up at Jack, framed in the window high above them, but he doesn’t matter anymore, not tonight.

“I have the car,” Will says softly. He wraps an arm around Hannibal, supporting as much of his weight as he can afford to. “Let’s go home.”

They don’t look back as they limp into the night.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay since the last update. Hopefully, I'll have this wrapped up soon. Thanks for sticking with me.

Will finishes wrapping the last of Hannibal’s wounds and looks up at him. Hannibal’s face is drawn with a pain that Will can see goes beyond the physical. Kneeling at his feet as Hannibal sits on the couch, Will hates what he knows must happen next. He blinks and, in the moment his eyes are closed, he can see it all.

_ Jack manages to finagle an extradition and Hannibal Lecter returns to American soil in a straightjacket to face the same murder charges that Will had and probably more. He is found guilty but insane and is sentenced to an unheard of number consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. For a while, he is the golden boy of the psychiatric community. Doctors and scientists and students travel from across the globe to interview him. Countless books are published and their authors argue on talk shows and at conventions over how to properly diagnose Hannibal the Cannibal. He is the topic of doctoral thesis and documentaries. Until the next monster comes along and academic attention starts to shift. Hannibal’s crimes become the stuff of cheap slasher movies and trashy true-crime shows. But public interest begins to wane as well and soon enough Hannibal Lecter is not longer profitable. The visitors dry up and he’s left with nothing but the few things he’s allowed in his cell. He retreats further and further into his mind palace until he seems to be the next best thing to comatose. A parade of doctors continue to throw every kind of treatment at him that they can think of until his mind is all but destroyed from drugs and electroshock and neglect. He dies alone and there is a brief resurgence of interest in his crimes, but it doesn’t matter anymore. And as for Will Graham? Well, one thing is certain: he never sees Hannibal Lecter again. _

No, Will thinks. He cannot allow that to happen.

“Go,” he says.

“What?”

“Go.”

Hannibal stares at him.

“They can’t have you,” Will says, desperation starting to pull at his voice. “The things they’d do to you? I can’t let it happen. You have to go.”

Hannibal stands unsteadily and Will rises with him.

“You want me to leave you?” he asks.

“No,” says Will. “But you have to go.”

“I’ve never been one for running, Will.”

“I know. And I know we could kill Jack when he gets here, but then what? Either way this life is over for us. You know that. It’s just a question of what comes next.”

Hannibal studies Will’s face carefully, but says nothing.

“Please,” Will says. “Go.” He swallows, eyes searching Hannibal’s face for something, some way to make him protect himself. “For me.”

Hannibal reaches out and gently cups Will’s check with one hand.

“Oh my Will,” he says. “You are so much more magnificent than even I could have ever predicted.”

Will stares into Hannibal’s eyes. He hates this. He hates everything about it, but it’s their best chance. And it’s Hannibal’s only chance. If he’s caught, it’s only a matter of time before irreparable damage is done to his mind, whether with ECT or psychosurgery or some god-awful cocktail of antipsychotics. Will would see Hannibal dead before he saw him lose himself. But he doesn’t think he could kill Hannibal tonight. He hopes Hannibal can understand that.

“Go.”

Hannibal takes a moment longer to study Will’s face and then nods.

“Promise me one thing,” he says.

“Anything.” And Will means it.

“They can’t have you either. You’re no sacrificial lamb.”

“No,” Will says. “I’ll be alright.”

Hannibal nods again and steps away from Will. 

Will watches him move about the flat as quickly as his injuries allow, collecting the few things he’ll need. He produces three manila envelopes like the ones that he had given them on that last night in Baltimore and Will wonders how many identities Hannibal has on the back burner at any time. He gives two of them to Will and tucks the other into his bag. It’s only a few minutes later that Hannibal stands at the door, duffle over his shoulder, unremarkable clothes on his body, and stoic mask on his face. Will has wiped away most of the blood, but the makeshift split on his wrist shows through his shirtsleeve. 

“This was all I ever wanted for you,” he says. “For both of us.”

“It was beautiful,” Will replies, voice shaking. There’s so much more he wants to say, so much he needs for Hannibal to know, but there isn’t time and it wouldn’t be right, wouldn’t be them. And anyway, Hannibal knows already. “Go.”

Hannibal gives Will a brief, pained smile and leaves.

Will is still standing there when Jack Crawford opens the door. Will feels weak; every breath costs him and his body is shaking, but he knows he can pull strength from how much he no longer cares.

“He’s gone, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t lower his gun.

“What’s is going to be?” Will asks. “Going to take me back in handcuffs or a straightjacket? Or maybe you were thinking a bodybag.”

“I could arrest you for the murder of that inspector,” Jack says.

“Could you?” Will asks with a hollow laugh. “I didn’t think the FBI had jurisdiction in Italy.”

“An extradition then. You tried to kill me.”

“Do you want an apology?”

“What  _ happened _ , Will?” Jack asks, voice strained with desperation, like he can will the situation to make sense.

Will shakes his head.

“Does it matter?”

“Where did he go?” he asks instead.

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” Will says simply.

Jack finally lowers the gun, though he doesn’t put the safety back on.

“Make up your mind, Jack,” Will says. “What are you going to do?”

Jack shakes his head slowly. Will almost feels sorry for him. His world has lost all logic and he doesn’t know how to understand what’s standing in front of him. But Will has shut off his empathy to this man, flooded those parts of his mind with Hannibal and he can’t care anymore. He’s done here.

Will starts to walk towards the door. Jack levels the gun at him again in an instant, but Will ignores it and keeps moving.

“Stop, Will. Don’t move.”

Will pauses for a moment. 

“You aren’t going to shoot me, Jack,” he says, his voice almost pitying. 

“Oh? You sure about that?”

“Yes. You would have done it already.”

Will walks past him and leaves the flat.

❈❈❈

Will gets a cab to the park-and-ride and drives to the farm. He collects the dogs, a few changes of clothes, and the paperwork on Francis Fell. He pauses, looking around at the place that had been his home. He imagines it’s trite, but he thinks that he was the happiest he’s ever been here. He’s going to miss it. More than that, he’s going to miss what it meant. He feels like he should take something with him, some token, but there’s nothing that could possibly encompass what this place has been.

He gets the dogs and what they will need into the truck and doesn’t look back.

They drive through most of the night and his call to Abigail from a roadside payphone is what wakes her.

“Will?” she mumbles, sleepily.

“Abigail, listen.” He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “Hannibal’s gone,” he says.

“What?” Her voice is quiet and stunned. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“Jack caught up with us. I made him go. You know what would have happened.”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“He left us some things. I’m just outside Rome now. Can I come drop it off?”

“What is it?” she asks.

“Probably new identities. I haven’t looked through it yet.”

“I… I’m going to Paris next semester.” She sounds like she might start crying.

“I know.”

“I think Stef might really like me.”

“I’m sorry, Abigail. Can I meet you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Will thinks she’s wiping her eyes, forcing herself to focus. She gives him an address and they hang up.

They meet in a park and Will lets the dogs out.

“What are you going to do with them?” she asks. She’s gathering Dante to her chest seemingly without realizing she’s doing it.

“I don’t know.”

He gets the envelopes and they sit down on a bench under a street light. Her hands her the one that reads “Abigail” and fidgets with the one marked “Will.” Just the sight of his name in Hannibal’s hand is like a punch in the gut. All Will can do is wonder if he’ll ever see him again.

Abigail opens her envelope and pulls out a small stack of papers. Will watches her read the top sheet, covered in Hannibal’s writing, and then flip through the others. After a few minutes, she looks up at Will.

“Apparently, I was forced to come to Italy by the known psychopath Hannibal Lecter and am now free to do as I please. There’s paperwork here to change my enrollment so I can stay in school and I have a student visa and all my IDs.” She shows Will a passport bearing a slightly out of date picture and the name Abigail Hobbs. “There’s also a bank account with — Jesus — way more than I need. I can go back to my life.” She looks at Will in confusion as if receiving his blessing will somehow make it make sense. 

“Yeah,” he says.

“What about you?”

Will shrugs.

“I don’t think you should worry about me.”

“But what if I need you?”

It tugs at his heart.

“I’ll make sure you get a phone number.”

“Where are you going?” she persists.

Will opens his envelope, peers inside, and finds what looks like a plane ticket. He pulls it out and studies it for a moment. 

“Back to America, apparently.”

Abigail frowns.

“I’ll be alright. I don’t think Jack believed me when I said I didn't know where Hannibal was going. They’ll look for us together.”

“And you don’t think Jack won’t catch wind of someone shipping a million dogs from Italy to the States?”

Will runs his fingers through his hair, thinking.

“I’ll find a couple different places to board them and then have them sent over one at a time.”

She nods and they sit in silence for a long minute.

“Will I see you again?” she asks, voice barely audible. 

“I don’t know.”

“Will we see him again?”

“I don’t know.” Will runs his hand through his hair again. He knows it makes him look ridiculous after he’s done it a few times, but Hannibal isn’t here to make him stop or to try to force his hair back into place. “I made him promise me that you’d be safe. He isn’t safe. I don’t think he’ll come back to visit you.”

She nods and Will can’t be sure what she’s feeling.

“Hell, I’m not safe for you either.”

“Will,” she begins, but doesn't say anything after. He waits, but she just stares at the ground.

“I have to go,” he says eventually. “But you’re going to be alright, Abigail. Hannibal keeps his promises.”

She nods again and they stand, the dogs milling around them, clearly confused. Will whistles to them and starts getting them back in the truck, bigs ones in the back, little ones in the cab.

“Will,” she says as he starts to close the cab door.

“Yeah?”

“Can I keep Dante?”

Will smiles even though he can feel tears in his eyes.

“You know he’s gonna get big.”

“He’s already gotten big.”

It was true. The little guy wasn’t exactly little anymore.

“He’s gonna get bigger.”

“I know.” She pauses for a moment. “But can I keep him?”

“Of course.” Will gets Dante back out of the truck and grabs one of the smaller bags of food he’d brought from the farm. He hands Abigail the bag and the leash and she clutches it like a lifeline. “Take care of him and he’ll take care of you.”

She nods and Will can see the tears in her eyes. He pulls her close, holding her safe against his chest, and she clings to him. Will knows this is the closest he’s ever going to get to having a child. Even if his life weren’t utterly insane, passing along his genetics would be. He can feel her unsteady breathing as she tries not to cry and he rubs her back and presses a kiss to her hair.

“You’re going to be alright,” he tells her again when they break apart. “You’re so strong, Abigail.”

“Not strong enough for him,” she whispers.

Will didn’t think his heart could break anymore tonight and yet it does.

“Abigail,” he says, gently lifting her chin so she’s looking into his face. “You escaped Hannibal Lecter. That took more strength than anyone else in the world has. He would have made you like him, but you were too strong. Do you understand that?”

She nods.

“Good.”

He hugs her again, briefly this time, and then steps away.

“Bye, Will,” she says.

“Good-bye, Abigail.” 


	19. Chapter 19

Francis Antinous returns to America after the sudden and tragic loss of his husband, Hadrian, who had died of a heart attack. Francis spends a few weeks traveling the country, staying in seedy motels before finally settling in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. Over the course of a few months, he picks up a large number of dogs from several different airports around the state. His late husband's money buys them all a small house (though it could have bought them a much larger one) and Francis slowly gets to know a handful of his neighbors by fixing their boat motors.

It’s a quiet life and one that Will knows he should be grateful for. He has his dogs and his freedom and more money than he really knows what to do with. His neighbors are friendly, but not especially interested in him and their houses sit far enough apart that they almost never have to speak. The dogs are happy and healthy and ready to run anyone Will doesn't like the look of off the property. It’s the best he could have hoped for, even before he met Hannibal. There’s no FBI, no crime scenes, no new murderers making nests in his head. He has everything he could need and more and he should be grateful. 

But he can’t be.

He can’t sleep, can’t relax, and food is like ash in his mouth. His body and mind are on red alert all the time even as days and weeks and months slip past with not so much as a whisper from Jack Crawford or the FBI. He lies awake at night, tracing the scar above his hip where Hannibal’s mouth had once been, proof that it had even been real at all. He takes long walks by the ocean at night. He tries not to scream at night. And the few hours he that does manage to sleep he spends locked in nightmares and leaves drenched in sweat. His body rebels against food and it takes several weeks in Florida before he stops vomiting almost daily. His days on the road had been even worse, but he’d been afraid to settle too quickly. Even his new culinary skills do nothing to improve his appetite; if anything, the better he knows his food should taste, the less he can keep it down. The dogs are always close by as if they want to ask what they can do for him, but he knows there’s nothing to be done except wait and try to keep himself alive.

Well, almost nothing.

He has to drive to Summerland Key to visit Summerland Wine and Spirits, but the old station wagon he’d bought is more than up to the trip. Which he makes more often than he likes to think about. Not that any non-lethal amount of Jack Daniels could keep his nightmares at bay, but it can, at least, knock him out for a while even if it does make the vomiting worse. He loses what must easily be thirty pounds in six months and knows that Hannibal would be furious, but it doesn't make him any more able to eat. 

Will stares at the papers Hannibal had left him for hours on end, but they are always the same. Just a pile of documents that tell the story of a life. Birth and marriage certificates. Driver’s license and social security card. Bank accounts, medical history, high school and college diplomas. The death certificate of his husband. All of it is so sterile and impersonal. He remembers the note Abigail had received, but there’s nothing like that for him. Maybe because Hannibal had intended to find him again quickly, maybe because he’d assumed Will wouldn’t need additional instructions. Maybe because he’s done with Will forever. All Will has is his name in Hannibal’s hand. The edges of the envelope turn soft from Will’s repeated touch.

The raven stag stumbles through his dreams, leaving trails of blood and gore and darkness as it searches for a place to die. Will chases it now, but he can never quite catch up. Sometimes it screams, but more often it bears its pain in silence. Will screams, though.

❈❈❈

It takes him a long time before he’s willing to start keeping up with the news again. He watches from a safe distance as the Tooth Fairy ravages families across three states, once per moon cycle, like clockwork. He knows that if Jack could, he would have forced Will onto this case. He finds he doesn't care much. Of course, he doesn't care about anything much, apart from the dogs. At least there’s no word on the international manhunt for Hannibal Lecter, or any murders that have Hannibal’s shine to them.

The Tooth Fairy becomes the Red Dragon and Will uses three different forwarding services to send a note to Jack. They ambush the Dragon outside the home of the family that would have been his next victims and fail to take him alive. Will almost smiles when he reads that his name was Francis. He almost cries when he reads Reba McClane’s interview. He wishes he could speak to her somehow without hurting her further. He imagines they would have some things to talk about that few others could understand. Though, of course, she hadn’t known about the thing in Francis that Will had embraced in Hannibal. 

❈❈❈

He’s walking down the beach. It’s late and a heavy fog is rolling in from the black expanse of the sea. He walks alone in the surf, each lap of the waves a kiss of darkness that threatens to pull him under. The sand shifts beneath his feet and it takes focus to keep his balance and his pace. He scans the beach in front of him, looking, looking…

There.

He spots the marks in the sand just a little ways up the beach and moves towards them, but they’ve been washed away by the tide before he can reach them and he must start over.

Again and again, he searches for, finds, and loses the trail. The more desperate he becomes, the more the sand seems to suck at his feet. It’s getting darker by the minute and he knows that soon he will not be able to see at all and when that happens he fears for himself as well as his quarry. Still, he struggles onward. The prints in the sand appear out of the gloom just ahead of him at a turn in the beach, but the fog is pressing in on all sides and he can only follow the sound of the water and try to use the touch of the surf as a guide.

His heart is racing, breathing ragged as the fog fills his lungs as if to smother him from the inside out. He stumbles and falls against something large. The sand bites into his knees and he gropes out blindly, trying to discover what he has hit. He feels fur and feathers beneath his touch. He feels labored breathing and something wet and hot and sticky.

He’s caught up with it at last.

Will gropes his way to the creature's head and finds that its antlers have been brutalized, the points ending in jagged stumps. He brings his hands down to its face and tries to feel for breathing through the blood, but there is nothing. He frantically makes his way down the creature’s body, seeking a heartbeat, the rise and fall of the chest, anything. But all he finds is a roughly stitched incision along its motionless belly, blood still oozing from inside it.

His fingers, now slick with blood, fumble along, desperately tearing out stitches that he cannot see. He knows what this is now. He’s seen it before. He knows that there is a life inside this death, waiting to be reborn if only Will can reach it in time. With a last desperate tug, the stitches fall away in Will’s hands and something large and wet slides from inside the raven stag into Will’s lap. 

He rips through the membrane covering the life that lies still against his body.

_ Please, please, please _ .

The fog is starting to clear and Will can begin to make out the form of the figure he has delivered from the stag. His fingers ghost over the head and his heart stops for a moment. He knows this face, knows it like he knows his own name. His fingers skitter down the body, seeking heartbeat, breath, pulse,  _ something _ .

“Hannibal!” he tries to scream, but suddenly finds that his mouth won’t open. “Hannibal!” Still no sound emerges from his mouth.

He holds the man’s body to his chest as the fog rolls back away across the ocean. _No_ , he thinks. _No,_ _don’t leave me. Don’t make me see this. Don’t leave me to breathe in a world where he’s dead._ But the fog is merciless and his breathing starts to come easier as it pulls its tendrils from his lungs and he finds he cannot close his eyes against the sight before him.

Hannibal is naked in his arms, body still and quickly losing the heat absorbed from the stag. Will’s restless hands cannot find an injury, but then he blinks and sees the perfectly round hole between Hannibal’s eyes.

“He’s a monster, Will,” says Jack Crawford and Will looks up and sees him standing in his front yard in Wolf Trap. “Monsters can’t be allowed to live.”

“What about me then?” he asks. He looks back down at Hannibal and sees that blood is fountaining from the man’s forehead. He presses his hands to the wound, but there’s no stopping the flow.

“What about you, Will?”

“If he’s a monster then so am I.”

“I know,” Jack says calmly.

Will realizes then that the blood covering him is not only Hannibal’s but also his own. His life is flowing away, blood from the wound in his chest mingling with that of Hannibal’s.

“It’s alright, Will,” Jack says. “You’ve always known it would end like this.” 

Will shakes his head and puts Jack aside. He doesn't care about himself; he just needs to wake Hannibal. If he can just get Hannibal to wake up then everything will be alright. 

“Hannibal,” he calls again, but his voice is too quiet to be heard. “Hannibal!” It feels like he’s going to rip his vocal cords right out, but his shouts are barely more than a whisper. “ _ Hannibal _ !” But no one can hear him.

❈❈❈

“Hannibal!” Will screams the name so loudly that he jerks himself awake and sets several of the dogs to barking. His body feels drenched and for a horrible moment he can’t escape the thought that it’s blood — Hannibal’s blood — but then one of his flailing hands finds the bedside light and he manages to turn it on. He’s soaked with sweat, but nothing more.

The dogs stare at him and Will pats the mattress. They immediately pile onto him, vying with each other for valuable lap real estate. Will pets them absently, his mind far away. A wet nose snuffles at his face and when he reaches up to push it way he discovers that he’s crying. He swears under his breath, forcing his fear and pain into anger. 

He’d brought this on himself, dammit.  _ He _ had told Hannibal to leave,  _ he  _ had come here to the middle of nowhere,  _ he _ had agreed to go with Hannibal to Italy in the first place. He rubs angrily at his face. He hates how much time and energy he still manages to spend on Hannibal fucking Lecter. He closes his eyes and sees the man’s face, hears his voice. The shadows form the shapes of their kills, their art, and he cannot look away. He digs his fingers into soft, warm fur, trying to ground himself.  _ (My name is Will Graham. It’s ass o’clock in the morning and I’m in Sugarloaf Key, Florida.) _ It doesn't help. He can still hear Hannibal’s voice in his ear, easy as if they were sitting hip to hip. 

“Will, tell me how you killed Jack Crawford.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters.

_ No, no. It’s just a memory.  _

“Will.”

“No,” he says aloud. He looks over, half expecting to see Hannibal sitting there; that kind of hallucination wouldn’t exactly be new territory for him. But all he sees is the dogs.

Will sighs heavily and gets up. No point lying in his own sweat any longer; it’s not like he’ll be going back to sleep. He strips the bed and shoves the sheets into the trash bag he’s been using as a laundry hamper, but when he goes to get the spare set, he finds nothing. He frowns for a moment before remembering that they are already in the trash bag from his last round of night sweats.

Well, it’s not like he has anything else to do.

Will is grateful to have a washer, even if the dryer is broken. The nearest laundromat is in Key West, which has a significantly larger population than Sugarloaf, a quality that Will does not appreciate. The dogs slowly drop back off to sleep while Will sits and stares at the washer. It isn’t even the sort with a window to watch the clothes go round and round, but he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Dawn is just starting to creep over the horizon when Will goes outside to hang his laundry. He vaguely considers hanging himself while he’s at it, but then what would the dogs do? He cannot throw away the life that Hannibal had bought for him at such a high price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to shout out xzombiexkittenx and their wonderful fic Shark Tank from which I pulled heavy inspiration for this Florida section. If you haven't read it, I whole-heartedly recommend it.


	20. Chapter 20

He’s braving an aging internet cafe in Key West to make his weekly check on the outside world when he stumbles across something that actually jerks his attention back to reality. He skims the obituary quickly, heart rate picking up as he reads. At the bottom are the words that prompt him to take action.

_Mr. Verger is survived by his sister Margot, her wife Alana, and their unborn child._

Shit.

He has to leave the Keys to buy a burner phone. Probably for the best anyway, calling from too close to home would be stupid. He asks one of his neighbors to look in on the dogs while he’s gone for the day and heads north. He drives for almost three hours before he reaches the nearest Wal-Mart where he buys a prepaid flip phone. It takes some calling around before he finds the number he’s looking for, but, at last, he hears a familiar voice.

“This is Margot Verger.”

“Margot. This is Will Graham. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Will.” His name comes out in a shocked breath. “Alana said you were…”

“A death, a wedding, and a baby on the way. You have been busy, haven’t you?” He can hear her calling for Alana. “Don’t bother. I only have a minute. Tell me, Margot, did Hannibal come to help you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with my family without Hannibal’s help,” she says.

“So he didn’t call you.”

There’s a brief yet telling pause.

“Will, where are you?” She sounds like she really does want to know, but he knows that it is only for Alana’s sake that she’s asking.

“Give Alana my best,” he says and hangs up.

He holds the phone in his hand, thinking. Hannibal hadn’t come back to the States, at least not for this. Will hadn’t really believed that he would do something as risky as setting foot in an American airport, but he’d had to be sure. If Hannibal had found a way to come back for Mason, maybe he would come back for Will as well. But that kind of thinking is foolish and he knows it. 

He drops the phone to the pavement and crushes it beneath his boot. He won’t be needing it again.

❈❈❈

Time continues to slip by and Will continues not to care. He had thought in the back of his mind that eventually he would start to come back to himself, but it seems now that he will spend the rest of his life in this strange fog of night. He had thought for so long that Hannibal was a terrible shadow over his world, a power keeping him from the light, but now he understands that Hannibal was the sun and without him Will is left cold and blind.

_“This was all I ever wanted for you, for both of us.”_

And now what does he have? A voice echoing in his head? Visions he cannot quite grasp? A hole in himself where Hannibal had been?

He tries to make himself focus. He has a home. He has his dogs. He has his work. He has his freedom. He also has his bottles of Jack.

But then he’s forced to give up his work on the boat motors after he mixes it with his growing alcoholism and has to enlist a neighbor to drive to the ER on Stock Island at nearly midnight. He doesn't lose the finger, but it’s a close thing. It seems that word gets around because people stop asking him to fix their boats pretty fast after that, leaving Will with one less thing in his already hollow life.

He wishes he could find his way into Hannibal’s memory palace. Even if he couldn't meet the man himself there, at least he could be somewhere else. Every time he tries to wade into the stream, the water runs red with blood. All he has are the ghostly whispers of his memories, which, in the dead of night, come far too close to hallucinations for Will’s liking. At least he isn’t sleepwalking.

Still, more than once he’s jerked awake convinced Hannibal’s voice had woken him. _“Oh, my Will. You are so much more magnificent than you know.”_ It’s only ever memory. He starts to wish that he would just hallucinate Hannibal. At least then he’d have someone to talk to and what’s the point of being crazy if you don’t get some side benefits? 

❈❈❈

Even after living in the little house for almost a year, Will still hardly ever gets mail aside from his monthly utility bills and the occasional ad addressed to “our friends at.” In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s gotten more mail specifically addressed to people who aren’t him than he’s gotten things for himself. Or rather, for Francis. But he still checks his mailbox dutifully. He tells himself it’s because he needs routine, but really it’s because he never knows what day or week it is and so can’t remember when to look for his bills.

He’s flicking through the latest stack of junk mail for Brandaun Jacobson — whoever that is — and he’s surprised to come across a hand-addressed envelope. Or he would have been surprised if the sight of that writing hadn’t shocked all emotion from his body. He stands on the side of the road, staring at the envelope while it quavers in his hands. He isn't sure how long he stands there before one of the dogs’ barking snaps him back to reality. He goes inside and sinks onto his second-hand couch.

The envelope is still in his hands, still real, still bearing that script that makes him want to cry and laugh and throw up and scream and faint and whoop for joy all at the same time. The dogs seem to sense some importance to the moment and they sit quietly at his feet.

Will opens the envelope with shaking hands. The paper inside is heavy and floods Will with sense memories so powerful he feels like he blacks out for a moment. He can barely hold the page in focus to read it.

_My dearest Will,_

_You will have to forgive me sending you this, but I hope that you will at least find comfort in learning that it took me some time to track you down even knowing you as I do and so I believe that you are quite safe. You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that our Abigail is as well. No, I haven’t seen her, but I have watched her progress and you would be proud of her. I am, in a fashion._

_I won’t do you the dishonor of pretending to believe that you are well; I know you too intimately for that. But please, my Will, find a life to live. You could have any life that you can imagine and, in your case, that is truly saying something. I know that our old lives will always hover in the shadows, but you must find a new life now, as I suspect you have not yet done so. In this endeavor, I would suggest you begin by leaving Florida for somewhere less… moribund. There is more than one way to be happy, Will._

_I think of you often and of our time together in Florence. I regret that we had so little of it, but we replaced much ugliness with beauty in that time, did we not? Even now, I call upon that beauty to sustain me through what I will admit to you are ugly times. I regularly visit that forest beyond the motel in my mind palace and, though I cannot find you there, I can marvel at the small piece of you that came away on the work you created that night. But beauty is like a candle flame and there is much in this world that would snuff it out._

_Seek beauty again, Will, even though I imagine what you find will be very different from what we shared. You deserve it. You deserve so very much._

_Orion is about the horizon now, and near Jupiter. Forgive me for not telling you the time or how bright it is — you are far too clever for that — but I expect you can see it too. Know that some of our stars are the same._

_Will._

_I hope most ardently to remain,_

_Very truly yours,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

Dawn breaks and the fog lifts from Will’s mind. He knows what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with some other lines here and there, parts of the letter (mainly, as I recall, the bit about the stars) were lifted from the original books.


	21. Chapter 21

It takes time to prepare, more time than Will would like, but he has to do this right or he’s certain to fail. It takes the longest to rehome the pack. It breaks Will’s heart, but he can’t take them with him and, even if he could, it wouldn't be fair to them. He has to spend many hours in Key West using the internet at a couple of different coffee shops, which he does not enjoy. But, in the end, it pays off.

He sells the station wagon and buys what can only be described as a kidnapping van. He doesn't have time to sell the house so he just tidies it up and leaves it. He packs up the few things he will need: the dogs’ food, beds, and toys; his clothes; some cash; and the various documents that Hannibal gave him. And, of course, the letter. He also packs his old FBI ID. While he couldn’t use it on law enforcement who might either run it or simply recognize him, it could be useful if he needs to talk to civilians. 

He piles the pack into the van and they begin their long drive. He stops often to let the dogs run and have some water, but it’s still exhausting. Most motels won’t let you keep seven dogs in your room so he finds places to park and nestles down in the back with the dogs for a few hours at a time. He’s brought enough food for the pack, but Will himself is pretty much living off of gas station snacks and fast food. Hannibal would be appalled. 

Now that he’s taking action, Will feels infinitely better. His nightmares are less extreme, curling up with the dogs and too exhausted to think. His mind doesn't slip into those vivid memories anymore either, though he does sometimes imagine that he can see the raven stag out of the corner of his eye, running to keep up with the van.

The air conditioning breaks halfway through Texas. There’s only the two front windows to open and he’s forced to stop more frequently to insure none of the dogs get heatstroke. It’s awful and, with a vanful of dogs and nowhere to shower, it’s smelling pretty terrible by the time they cross into New Mexico. What was a 33 hour drive on the map takes them four long days and Will is aching and irritable when they finally reach the small Colorado ranch that is their destination.

Will takes the van up the long, dirt driveway past a pasture with a small herd of horses and a field with what he feels is an unnecessarily large number of miniature goats. The house is long and low, made of warm wood with a barn and several smaller outbuildings scattered around it. By the time Will is pulling up in front, most of the family has assembled to greet him, a man, woman, and three children.

“You must be Francis,” says the smiling woman, already holding out her hand before Will is fully out of the van.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking her hand while trying to keep as far away from her as possible so she doesn't have to smell him. “Mallory?”

“Leah,” she says with a laugh. “Mal’s in the barn, but she should be here soon.”

Will nods.

“Can we see them?” asks a boy that Will would put around eight, standing next to another, very similar-looking boy, who nods in enthusiastic agreement.

“Of course.”

He walks to the back of the van, looks to Leah, who nods, and then throws the doors open. The pack comes flooding out and immediately starts greeting the family enthusiastically. Will can’t help but smile. He really found a miracle with these people.

“Damn. You weren’t kidding,” the man, Jonathan according to the email exchange, says with a slight laugh.

“Too much?” asks Will, face pinching with worry. 

“It’s perfect,” he says. 

The adults watch the dogs rolling on the ground with the three children for a moment. Jonathan moves to stand by Will, leaning towards him to speak over the excited barking and shrieking coming from the ground. 

“The little one there is Emmy,” he says, pointing at the smallest child, a tiny blonde thing who looks nothing like either of the adults. “And then the twins are Roger and Carlos,” he indicates the two boys, both several shades darker than Jonathan and Leah. “And here come Mal and Courtney.” 

A woman and a girl on the cusp of puberty walk towards them from the barn. Courtney has Johnathan’s dark hair and Mallory looks to be about six or seven months pregnant. She greets Will with the same enthusiasm as the rest of her family and, before Will can object, he’s been invited inside for lunch.

He slips into the bathroom and takes a deep breath. The first thing he thinks is that it’s nice to be in clean bathroom for the first time since he left Sugarloaf. He freshens up as best he can and then joins the family at their long table, the dogs happily flopped on the floor, enjoying the air conditioning. 

A lot of the conversation is rehashing what Will learned in their emails. The family bought the ranch about two years previous and has hit a good stride with the horses, goats, chickens, and what they repeatedly describe as “a smallish garden.” They also seem very used to explaining their family because Will gets that whole backstory as well. Courtney is Jonathan's daughter from a previous relationship with a woman who “didn’t believe in abortion but also didn’t believe in raising her child.” Roger, Carlos, and Emmy are all adopted and Will learns far more than he ever cared to about the difficulties of adopting children when living as a triad.

“Do you have any children, Francis?” asks Mallory.

“No,” he says. “I have a niece who I’m close to, but she’s studying abroad at the moment.” It’s the best way to explain it.

“Why can’t you keep your dogs?” demands one of the twins.

“Carlos,” Leah admonishes.

“It’s alright,” says Will. He’s already gone over the story with Mallory over email and sees no reason not to solidify it with the children. “My husband’s visa expired and he couldn’t renew it so he has to go back home.”

“What a visa?”

“It’s something that the government gives to people from other countries that means they’re allowed to can here.”

Carlos nods, but Will can tell he doesn't really understand. 

“So you have to go back to his home?”

“Yes.”

“But why can’t the dogs go with you?”

“They don’t let you bring that many animals into another country,” Will explains.

“But you’re a family.”

Will smiles a little sadly at the boy’s righteous indignation. Even at his age, he has likely already had to stand up for his own family’s right to exist.

“The  Lithuanian government doesn’t see it like that,” he says quietly.

He can see pity in the eyes of the adults as he says it. He suspects they know that Will’s supposed marriage won’t be legal in Lithuania and that he will have to fight tooth and nail to stay in the country. He lets them pity him even though he does not deserve it. 

After lunch, Will goes over which dog is which and puts them through their paces. Leah literally starts taking notes so Will doesn’t feel too bad about inundating them with information about the dogs’ various idiosyncrasies. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” Jonathan asks.

Will takes just long enough to come up with a lie that Jonathan get the invitation out before Will can stop him.

“Stay here with us if you don’t have plans.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—,” Will tries to protest, but he is overrun.

“Francis, you drove all the way from Florida to give us your family,” says Mallory. “Anything we can do for you, we’ll be more than happy to do.”

“I guess I could use a shower,” Will admits.

❈❈❈

Leaving is hard. Several of the dogs try to follow Will into the van, Buster making it as far as the driver’s side footwell. Will scoops him up and places him in the arms of one of the twins, he can’t be sure which, and the boy smiles like the sun. Will smiles back and tries to keep it together as he drives away. He can see Winston and several of the others chasing after the van and he bites his lip as he thinks that they have no idea that he’s never coming back.

He gets a cheap hotel room in Denver and only has to spend a few nights there before he manages to sell the van to a couple of college students for a few hundred bucks. Then he heads to the airport. 

It turns out that it’s a lot harder to buy tickets at the airport than it is in the old movies Will used to watch, but they manage to squeeze him onto a flight to Paris that takes off around four the next morning. He has a six hour layover in Toronto that he falls asleep during. He would have missed his flight, but an older woman gently shakes him awake when they start to board. 

They land at Charles de Gaulle and it takes Will most of the day to find a room for the night. He’d taken French in high school, but that had been more than a few years ago and his teacher’s New Orleans accent is not much welcome in  _ Paris _ . 

He spends the better part of two weeks figuring out the best ways to stalk Abigail. It makes him feel dirty to work out how to find and follow her, but he suspects Hannibal had done the same thing and it seems as good a place to start as any. Once he can track her through her day at the American University of Paris, he starts trying to deduce where Hannibal might have stayed. He begins with the hotels closest to campus and works his way out from there.

He manages to snag the single guest computer at his hotel and spends an hour or so scribbling down names and addresses. He figures he can eliminate the Best Westerns right off the bat. Even in hiding, Hannibal would never stay at an American hotel abroad. 

He spends a highly unpleasant day getting his appearance back up to snuff. He hasn’t gotten a proper haircut since Italy and his shaving habits have rather fallen by the wayside. He gets some serious side-eye from the barber he goes to. The man pretends not to understand a word of English so he can ignore Will’s suggestions about his hair, but, of course, names his price in Will’s native tongue. It’s shorter than Will would usually wear it, but he has to admit that it looks good.

Next, he forces himself to go shopping. He mostly buys what might be termed “business very casual,” the sort of things that he had once worn to teach in, but he also buys two suits, all with Hannibal’s money, of course. One he buys more or less off the rack, nice, but not too nice. He thinks it has a very “under-paid FBI agent” look to it. The second one, he’ll have to come back for and will be the sort of garment that Hannibal would have chosen for him. He isn’t sure he’ll have need of it, but it seems best to be prepared.

He spends the next several days in the agent suit, showing Hannibal’s old mugshot (which, of course, he looks amazing in, the bastard) around at various hotels. He’s on the edge of giving up this line of investigation when he goes into the Hôtel Raphael where the clerk gives him a dazzling smile and switches flawlessly from French to English when he hears Will’s accent. 

The young man accepts the picture Will offers him, his fingers brushing unnecessarily over Will’s as he does so. Will feels a flush beginning in his neck and focuses on maintaining his best FBI face. The clerk considers the picture for a long moment, but Will can see in his eyes that he’d recognized Hannibal immediately. 

“Yes,” he says, leaning over the counter to hand the picture back to Will.

Will takes it, but the young man doesn’t lean away.

_ Jesus, this kid can’t be more than twenty-five. What does he think he might get from me? _

“Monsieur Lamontagne stayed with us for about a week, as I recall. You’ve missed him by almost a year, Agent Graham.”

Will tries not to narrow his eyes in annoyance at the kid leans into his heady accent as he says Will’s name.

“Anything memorable about his stay?”

The clerk seems to think, running his tongue slowly between his lips. Will waits with an air of patient boredom.

“Not particularly,” he says at last when it becomes clear that he’s barking up a very uninterested tree. “He didn’t seem to be in  _ Paris _ on business, but it can’t have been very much for pleasure as he was always alone.” He pronounces Paris the French way, which shouldn’t bother Will, but it does.

_ You’re so lucky he didn’t eat you _ .

“Well, thank you for your time.”

“Of course, Agent Graham,” the kid purrs. “Always glad to help.”

Maybe the haircut was too good.

❈❈❈

Will moves to his other lead: the letter. He knows Hannibal will have used a forwarding service, likely more than one, but it’s somewhere to start. What it leads to, however, is a zig-zagging trip across Europe where his only comfort are the near-weekly emails he receives from Colorado with pictures and detailed updates on all the dogs.

He’s just dropped onto a lumpy hotel bed in Moscow after a heated argument with a Russian postal worker that had spanned three languages and a lot of impassioned gesturing when his phone pings. At least even shitty hotels have wifi these days. He rolls onto his stomach and opens the email from Leah. In it, she apologies for not sending better updates and tells him things have been rather hectic as he can see from the picture, but that the dogs are well. He scrolls down to see a snapshot of Mallory holding a tiny baby wrapped in a purple blanket. Winston is sniffing at the little bundle and seems, Will thinks, very happy. Under the picture is a caption that makes Will’s heart stutter for a moment.

_ Winston seems to think Willie is his puppy <3 _

He knows it’s just coincidence, but still. His dogs have a new Will to look after. He thinks they’ll make good aunts and uncles to the child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter a little contrived? Yes. But I, like Will, love dogs more than people and I had to give the pack a happy ending.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wildly long hiatus there, but I swear we’re coming in for a landing here!

It only takes a few days to discover that Moscow is yet another dead end. His frustration is starting to get the better of him. He  _ knows _ Hannibal, knows him better than anyone else in the world. He should be able to find him. Shouldn’t he? Will has to shove his doubts away and trust that, sooner or later, he’s going to find Hannibal’s trail. He is Hannibal’s achilles heel, the one who saw through all his lies, the one thing that he was unwilling to give up. It’s only a matter of time.

He’s combing through the few English language newspapers to be had in the Sheremetyevo International Airport while he waits on standby for a flight to Berlin. He has no idea if Berlin is the place he needs to be, but he hasn’t been there yet and it feels like the right place to try, somehow. He hears them call his flight number and he starts to put the paper aside when he sees it.

It’s like a beacon. Hell, Hannibal’s name might as well be in the headline. He quickly reads through the article, but those few keywords that had jumped out at him tell Will everything he needs to be sure.

“Surgical incisions.”

“Organs may be missing.”

“No trace evidence.” 

_ Jesus, Hannibal. Could you at least try to be a little bit subtle? _

Will starts towards the counter to buy the paper, but freeze after only a few steps.

_ Unless... No. Would he? He might. _

He shakes his head to try to clear it and buys the paper completely on autopilot. 

_ Unless he’s letting me know that he’s alright. _

Will double-checks the byline and then dashes towards the long line that must indicate the customer service desk.    
  


❈❈❈

Will is practically vibrating the whole journey, which earns him dirty looks from his various seatmates on the three flights it takes him to get to Casablanca. Because of course Hannibal as good as asked Will to meet him in fucking Casablanca. He hopes that Hannibal will be properly annoyed when he finds out that Will’s never even seen the movie.

Once he has his feet on the ground, he has to find a hotel so he can change and, upon catching sight of his reflection, take a shower. He ends up somewhere far more touristy than he would have liked, but he doesn't want to waste time hunting for somewhere better. And, amongst the business travelers in their power suits and the vacationers with their fanny packs, is a small lobby shop with all the English language newspapers Will could want.

When none of them prove helpful, Will realizes that he’s going to have to ask for assistance. He doesn’t speak of word of Arabic, something he is fast coming to regret. He swallows his pride and takes the paper from the airport over to the concierge desk where the smiling woman mercifully does not try to seduce him. 

“Excuse me,” he begins tentatively.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if maybe you could help me. I’m trying to find out more about this case,” he offers her the paper to look at, “But I can’t find anything more detailed than this in English and I’m afraid I don’t read any Arabic.” He offers her his best apologetic smile, one he used to give Alana — and Jack, back before Hannibal.

She takes the paper and studies it for a moment, frowning slightly.

“One moment, please.”

Will nods and the woman slips through a discreet door. She returns a minute later with another woman.

“Yasmine enjoys…” Her voice falters and she looks to the other woman for help.

“True crime,” Yasmine says.

“Yes. She enjoys true crime.”

The first woman moves away to allow Will and Yasmine to talk. She scans the paper quickly and then nods.

“Yes, this is quite the story. Though maybe not the best PR for our city.”

She smiles at him and Will laughs in a way that he hopes isn’t completely awkward. 

“I’m sure it’s very unusual.”

“Very,” she says excitedly. “I’ve heard of very few things like it. It has some elements in common with the Chesapeake Ripper profile, though,” she muses.

Will prays he hasn’t gone pale.

“You heard about that over here?” he asks, fighting to keep his tone casual.

“Oh yes. It was all over the papers and online.” She studies Will for a moment. “You know, you look a bit like that FBI agent, uh, Graham. Will Graham.” 

Will ducks his head slightly, feigning embarrassment.

“Yeah, I used to get that a lot when the case was fresh. It’s not as much as a draw with the ladies as one might hope.” He laughs and, thank god, she laughs with him. “But this one,” he says tapping the paper. “He wasn’t posed or anything, was he?”

“No. From what I’ve read it looks like they aren’t even sure if any organs were taken. Coroner’s report put time of death at least two weeks ago.”

_ Fuck. God fucking damnit. _

“Did it?”

She nods eagerly and keeps talking, but Will has stopped listening. Hannibal was here and, if he meant this death to be a message for Will, he hadn’t meant to make it easy to follow.

❈❈❈

Will spends the next several days searching everywhere he can for any sign of another of Hannibal’s kills, but there’s nothing to be found. He’s vanished again. Will wishes he could see the crime scene, even if only to stand where Hannibal had stood, but that’s out of the question. He can’t risk any contact with law enforcement. But there are more ways than one to track a killer. Will grooms himself with intent, slips into the agent suit, and gets a cab to the Mohammed V International Airport. 

“We have reason to believe that an American fugitive recently came through this airport. Do you recognize this man?” 

“Excuse me, William Graham, FBI, do you have a moment?”

“Do you mind if I show you a picture?”

He has to be careful not to speak to anyone in front of airport security, but, in the end, his efforts pay off.

“Yes,” says a man at the Air Arabia ticket counter. He speaks slowly like he isn’t quite sure and frowns at the picture for a long moment before handing it back to Will. “Yes. I remember because I booked him last-minute on a flight to Brussels. He would have barely made it to the gate, but he was not at all — what is the word? — flustered. He was not flustered.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“Must have been a couple of weeks ago now.”

“Could you look it up in your records?” Will presses.

“I would have to get my supervisor.”

Will nods and the man hurries away. When he gets back with his supervisor, Agent William Graham is nowhere to be seen.

❈❈❈

Will takes a train to Marrakech and a flight to Brussels. It’s not a place he ever thought he’d visit and he isn’t exactly in the mood for tourism, but his cab driver from the airport is very instant about pointing out the beauty of his city and Will’s passive agreements become less and less half-hearted. It really is beautiful. He can picture Hannibal here perfectly, strolling down the tangled streets and pointing out places of historical significance to Will. He aches at the thought, but takes heart from it as well. He’s getting closer.

From Brussels he begins another zigzagging journey around Europe, but this time, he knows that every plane, every train, every step is taking him closer to Hannibal. He’s gaining ground. He can feel it. 

❈❈❈

_ Carnevale _ is in full swing when Will reaches Venice. Getting a room proves to be nearly impossible, but there are few doors that Hannibal’s money can’t open. Including the one to a very exclusive, high-society ball.

Will feels guilty for every time he has wondered why other people take so long to get ready for things as he spends most of the day preparing for the evening’s event. He takes a shower, goes to the barber, takes another shower, has a disastrous run-in with the hair dryer, goes back to the barber, and then goes on a serious shopping spree. He buys a tie and pocket square set as well as cufflinks to match, some cover-up to try to hide the bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes, and, of course, a mask. He barely remembers to eat, but manages to squeeze it in lest he risk fainting or getting tipsy over a single glass of champagne. (Though, he reasons, he can reasonably claim “recovering alcoholic” and avoid drinking altogether. He probably should.)

He gives himself a careful once-over in the mirror before he leaves. His shoes are shiny, his trousers pressed, his shirt almost blindingly white, and every stitch on him is perfectly tailored. His tie and pocket square are festive flashes of gold, and he doesn’t look half-dead in the face. He’s not sure he’s ever looked this good before in his life. He nudges a single stray curl back into place and secures his mask. 

When he gets to the ball, however, he feels wildly underdressed. Everyone else there is resplendent in either full blown historical finery or else eveningwear that puts Will’s bespoke, Parisian suit to shame. He’s also one of only a handful of guests who has opted for more than a half-mask. Will’s is dark with a complex pattern of gold twining across it. It covers everything above his nose and reaches down on either side of his mouth almost to his jaw. Still, despite his apparent failure at fashion, his (illicitly bought) invitation is graciously accepted by a footman in a blue suit and honest-to-god powdered wig, neither of which would have looked out of place in a seventeenth century palace. 

Will grabs a flute of champagne from a tray being born by a spectacularly dressed server, but doesn’t drink it. He needs it to keep his hands still and, he supposes, to hide his mouth if, for some reason, the mask isn’t enough. He makes his way through the crowd, smiling and nodding and discovering that embracing his inner murderer has not cured him of his severe social anxiety. He hates everything about this party.

It’s strange to be back in Italy, to hear familiar sounds flowing around him even though he still doesn’t understand the language. He wonders vaguely if anyone from what had once been his village has made the trek to Venice for the holiday or if it’s like going to New Orleans for Mardi Gras — trite and never quite worth it. 

He makes his way up to a second-story colonnade overlooking the ballroom to survey the crowd. He knows he should be trying to pick out fellow strays who might be willing to talk to him and see if he can get any useful information out of the evening, but he’s reacting badly to the environment. Either that, or having a glass of champagne in his hand is kicking him back into some withdrawal symptoms. Both seem likely. He leans on the railing, trying to figure out what one does with a full glass of alcohol at a party where everyone’s already drunk when something in the crowd catches his eye. 

It takes him a moment to figure out what exactly had snagged his attention and he scans the room below him, trying to find it again.  _ There! Yes! _ A figure is moving in a way that Will  _ knows _ , knows to his core. It’s nothing obvious, nothing that would make anyone else so much as bat an eye. But reading people was not only part of Will’s job, it’s part of his being and he could recognize someone from stance alone. Now, he’s getting stance, gesture, walk. When the figure turns towards him, Will’s heart seems to freeze in his chest and he can’t breathe as he instinctively flings himself behind a large column and out of sight. 

He’d been wearing that eighteenth century garb complete with voluminous coat and a full-face mask, but Will would know him blind and deaf simply by the feeling of his breath as it rose and fell. Finally,  _ finally _ after what has become over a year and half, he is in the same room with Hannibal again. He’s imagined this moment a million times, but now that it’s here, he doesn't know what to do, doesn’t even know why he’s hiding when he should be running to Hannibal, killing everyone who stands in his way if he must. And yet…

“Hiding from an ex?”

Will nearly jumps out of his skin as he rounds the column and comes face to face with a woman in a full Marie Antoinette get-up. Will’s pretty sure he’s driven cars narrower than her silhouette. She’s wearing a delicate mask that barely covers the skin between her cheekbones and eyebrows and smiling at him as if they are co-conspirators in some marvelous prank. She has bright eyes that sparkle against her dark skin and a crisp English accent. 

“Uh,” says Will intelligently. 

“Say no more,” she says, waving a hand. 

There is a large floral arrangement on the far side of the column that stands taller than Will, though not nearly as wide as his new friend, which she peers through to look down at the revelers.

“Bastard,” she mutters to herself.

Will moves to stand behind her shoulder so he can see as well.

“Mine’s there,” she says, pointing with a gloved finger. “Purple gown. See?” She leans slightly to the side to give Will a better view.

“Dancing with that sort of jester?”

“Yes. Philip.”

Will doesn’t think he’s ever heard such disgust put into a single word before in his life. And he’s been on trial for murder.

“Which one’s yours?” she asks.

“Oh,” Will says blankly. He scans the room for a only moment; to him, Hannibal stands out like a gem amongst coals. “There. Dark coat with the scarlet accents.”

The woman studies him for a long moment.

“Ah,” she says at last. “Yes, he looks the type, doesn’t he?” She turns back to Will. “Cleo,” she says, holding out her hand.

“Will,” he replies, accepting the offer.

Her handshake is strong and warm even through the gloves.

“What did yours do?”

Will blows out a long breath of air.

“Oh, you know. He tried to kill me, I tried to kill him back, blah, blah, blah. He steals me away to Italy for this perfect life until he brings the police down on our heads again and he has to go on the run. The usual.”

Honesty has become so foreign to Will that it feels almost more false than lying.

Cleo laughs.

“Sounds about right. I caught mine sleeping with Philip. My cousin.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. To be fair, I did seduce her away from Philip’s half-brother before that, but he shouldn’t have been sleeping with his step-sister in the first place.” She shakes her head as if this is a common frustration that Will should be able to relate to. 

Will blinks at her and she laughs again. He has to take a moment of focus to be sure if she’s lying or not.

“I’m kidding,” she says, touching him playfully on the arm.

She isn’t, but Will doesn’t say so.

She peers out from the flowers again.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

Will opens his mouth hoping that a witty reply will come out, but instead he again hears the truth: “I don’t know.”

Cleo turns to him, her expression suddenly very serious.

“Did he hurt you?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says at once.

“Did you hurt him?”

Will pauses before answering, thinking of everything that had passed between Hannibal and himself.

“Yes.”

She nods.

“Does he love you?”

Will shrugs helplessly. 

“Did he ever say he loved you?” she presses.

“No, but he—.” Will stops himself.

“What?”

“I don’t know. He’s… complicated. I think if he doesn’t love me, what he does feel for me is as close to love as he’ll ever come.”

“But you love him?”

Will bites his lip, avoiding the twin spotlights of her deep brown eyes. He can still feel her gaze on him, though, even through the suit and the mask. 

Will’s gift has allowed him to feel almost every human emotion in some capacity or another. Whether during his work with the FBI or simply talking to someone, there is very little Will hasn’t felt translated through another human heart. He can remember with perfect clarity listening to a friend in college telling him about this girl he had met and it was like he was glowing. Will had still been figuring out how to deal with his hyper-empathy then and had made the mistake of asking his friend how long he’d been in love with her. It turned out that his friend hadn’t yet realized he was in love. It had been awkward to say the least. But Will had seen it, had understood it on every level except, perhaps, the most important one. He hadn’t understood why. He has experienced love vicariously many times since then, but it has always remained a feeling that belonged to others and, considering the crime scenes he’d stood in because someone had done something unspeakable “for love,” he has long since counted himself lucky for having avoided it.

But now...

Now all Will wants to do is shout Hannibal’s name above the music and vault over the railing and into his arms. Now, he wants to hold Hannibal and kiss him and fuck him and kill for him and die for him. Hannibal is his  singularity, the moment of infinity that expanded to create his universe. Before Hannibal, Will’s world was gray and dull, made of fog and unexplained pain. To others Hannibal might be a black hole, an inescapable force of destruction, but to Will he is an ever-lasting  supernova. When Hannibal had walked away, Will’s world had ended and now he has the chance to bring it back from the dead and yet he doesn’t know what to do.

Is this what love is?

_ “You changed the world, Will Graham.” _

_ “You are stunning, Will Graham.” _

_ “My Will, you are so much more magnificent than even I could have ever predicted.”  _

And what had he ever said in return?

“Will?”

He twitches slightly; he hadn’t realized he’d gone into his head until Cleo jolts him out of it.

“Do you love him?” she asks him again.

“I have to go.”


	23. Chapter 23

Will can see it all now. The pattern is crystal clear, a perfect map in his mind. He knows where to go, knows exactly where to meet Hannibal. He barely remembers to return to his hotel room to collect his things before heading to the airport. 

It isn’t a very long flight to Athens and Will has plenty of time to narrow down the list of hotels and rental properties and then all he has to do is wait.

Dawn is breaking over the Aegean Sea as Will walks alone down the quiet stretch of beach. He watches the water, shining and unreal in the first rays of the rising sun. He is dressed as nothing more than himself and has a few days of stubble back on his face like it might somehow protect him from the watching eyes of the world. The wind from across the sea isn’t exactly what Will would consider cold, but he’s comfortable in his preferred number of layers. Here, alone in a foreign land where he speaks none of language and knows only one other human being, he feels strangely safe and at peace.

He thinks of everything this land has seen, all the art and war and history that has transpired here. It was here that ancient men debated the nature of the world, of gods and man, of love and its many faces.  Will sees him in all of it.

He turns up a small path, white sand shifting beneath his boots, and walks towards an unassuming bungalow. A small, wooden sign stuck into the ground offers Will a name for the dwelling, but he cannot read it. Much of this side of the house is glass and Will can just make out the shapes of a living room and kitchen. But it is dark inside and no life yet stirs there. 

Will makes his way to the back door, opens the screen, and knocks on whitewashed wood. The door stands by the corner of the building, with a few small plants offering a bit of privacy from unexpected guests or wayward beach-goers. From where he stands, waiting, he cannot see into the house, but he can, after a minute, hear the sounds of movement from within.

At last, the door opens and there is Hannibal. He is shirtless, wearing only his favored black pajama pants, and he looks sleep-rumpled and almost vulnerable. The morning light catches the remains of the scars on his forearms and Will thinks there’s more gray amongst the hairs on his chest than the last time he saw him. Still, even with eyes gummed and hair disheveled, he is like a god to Will; power and perfection manifest before him.

Hannibal squints into the morning light, like isn’t awake enough to understand what he’s seeing. Before him, Will, backlit by the sunrise, glows like a saint, the edges of his curls appearing as a luminous halo. He stares at Will for a long moment, eyes darting over Will’s face as if there are answers to be found there.

“Will,” he says finally, his voice rough from sleep and stunned almost blank, though Will can hear the turbulent undercurrent of emotions.

“Hello, Hannibal,” he says softly.

“You found me.”

“Yes,” Will says. “I  _ know _ you, Hannibal. I’ll always know where to find you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the end, but I've upped the chapter count and will be adding an epilogue.


	24. Epilogue

Early on the fourteenth of February, Father Pietro Botero enters the Norman Chapel in Palermo to discover that the services to celebrate the feast of Saint Valentine will have to be cancelled. The  _ polizia _ are summoned, though only after the Father notified the rest of the clergy, and the unspeakable  _ thing _ that he found is identified as human remains. One of the officers at the scene mutters that this looks like something Inspector Pazzi would have lost his mind over. Others mutter what the headlines will later shout: _ il Mostro _ has returned to Florence.

The remains stay unidentified until missing persons submits a sample of DNA taken from a toothbrush for comparison. The remains, such as they are, belong to a young man named Anthony Dimmond, who had a reputation for being something of a nuisance at the Capponi Library where he worked. He will not be missed. 

The  _ polizia _ can find no evidence as to who might have killed Mr. Dimmond, not in the chapel, not at the Capponi, not anywhere. It seems  _ il Mostro _ has vanished from Florence again and the authorities are perfectly happy to let that be that, though they would never admit to it. Luckily for them and for the people of Florence, they are right. Their monster is long gone. 

More than four thousand miles away, across an ocean, a man and his team pour over the pictures of what remained of Mr. Dimmond. Over days that become weeks and then months, they will spend hours looking at the static images even though they all knew from the first glance whose work they were seeing.

There is only one man on Earth who would dismember a body so thoroughly as to make it unrecognizable and then craft it into the unmistakable shape of a human heart. And there is only one man on Earth he would do it for.

“Well, that settles the question of whether Will Graham is still alive,” Bedelia says, sitting back from the photos. 

Jack narrows his eyes at her. He still isn’t sure he should have accepted her offer to consult for the BAU, but here she is and he isn’t in a position to turn his nose up at help on a case that is, officially, very much not his. 

Beside her, Brian turns a little pale. Even after everything they’ve learned, Will was once their colleague, maybe even their friend. 

“You’re saying that that’s—?” he asks, peering at the pictures from a safe distance as if he might suddenly spot a telltale lock of brown curls. 

“Oh no, Mr. Zeller, not at all,” she assures him. 

“So what about this Hallmark card from Hell says ‘Will Graham’ to you?” Jimmy asks, skeptically.

Bediala looks around at them, smiling a cool, almost disinterested little smile, her fingers steepled and her eyes distant.

“Gentlemen, thus far you have only seen the things Hannibal Lecter does  _ to _ what he hates and that, I’m afraid, is nothing compared to the things he’ll do  _ for _ what he loves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, this was not in the story as I originally wrote it, but all of the wonderful and supportive comments made me want to clarify things just a tiny bit more. I hope y’all found it a satisfying end. Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing; I truly appreciate it.  
> Thank you, thank you, thank you.


End file.
